My daughter likes to play dress up. She doesn’t care a lot for most toys, sure she’ll snag the remote control or try to steal whatever her brothers are playing with. Let her loose on a drawer full of clothes, however, and she’ll satisfy herself for hours. Pants and shirts. Socks. Shoes. Never dresses.
If it’s pink or frilly, she’ll toss it aside with disdain. When we go out, I am already waged in a battle over acceptable attire. One that I tend to lose. I’d like her in a sundress, especially when it’s hot outside. “No, no!”, she protests. She wants jeans and a t-shirt.
To be completely honest, if it were entirely up to Abby, she’d most likely be draped in her brother’s wardrobe sized far too large for her small frame. Holding the pants up with her hands and shirts adorned with Spiderman that hang down to her knees. Rolled hems and arms lost in sleeves. My girl, my lone daughter, the one who I thought I’d get to prettify, prefers to dress like the boys.
When we’re home, she’s free to flaunt her funny sense of style. Droopy jeans, baseball tees, floppy hats. Mismatched socks, multiple layers. A pair of shorts on top of purple tights. This shirt, no that shirt, how about both? Inside out or backwards, but put on painstakingly without assistance. Iron Man and Power Ranger costumes from Halloweens past. The most beautiful superhero I know. She’ll take it off, just to put it right back on. It all winds up in a heap on the floor by the end of the day, like a bomb detonated in fabric. Except for the dresses. They remain pushed aside in her drawer.