Most people can tell when a small child is wearing apparel that is not of a parent’s choosing. Little boys are not immune to the phenomenon—I have a friend whose young son has worn a pint-sized Home Depot apron almost every waking moment for the last year and a half. But few can deny that girls corner the market on outlandish, self-selected fashion. Whether it’s a halter-top and flip-flops at a Christmas party, or a satin princess dress and gossamer fairy wings at the neighborhood park, for some kids, the desire to be fabulous will trump common sense and “appropriate,” every single time.    

      Some observers may mutter about loose standards and neglect, but the wiser view recognizes that these kids’ parents have learned to avoid unwinnable battles. I speak from experience, because my three-year-old daughter, Helen, has both an iron will and an entirely idiosyncratic sense of style. As a result, she has been known to shop for groceries in a tattered pair of purple tights and velvet royal robes leftover from Halloween. I could veto such get-ups, but I rarely do. The yelling and tears just don’t seem worth it.

      I do sometimes wish that just once she would willingly wear one of those darling, overpriced ensembles that her grandmother lovingly sends. My yearning is most intense when cameras are present, but naturally that’s when Helen is most apt to announce that today she wants to be “boy.” On boy days, she pulls on her brother’s outgrown t-shirt, jeans, and well-worn Incredible Hulk underwear (because they boast the all-important fly).

      I’m sometimes taken aback by the intensity of her apparel-related opinions and behavior. As child, I was unquestioningly obedient to my mom’s fashion dictates. I will never forget the three woolen homemade jumpsuits, circa 1974, that were the bane of my six-year-old existence. I hated those things, and to this day cannot suffer even a hint of itchiness about the neck without reliving the horror of spending long and dreary winter days encased in wool blend. But I wouldn’t have dreamed of refusing to wear them. And never, never, would I have undertaken anything like Ms. Helen’s well-planned campaigns of first saying no, and then screaming no, and then finally pitching a 45-minute fit until her absolute power over her own fashion destiny is recognized by everyone in the household--nay, the entire neighborhood.

      Still, part of me understands what drives her. While clothes may not make the man, the same is not necessarily true for the creative child, who fashions reality out of the simplest props, stitched together with little more than imagination. During the same era as the dreaded jumpsuits, someone gave me a pair of pastel plaid “hostess pants.” With their low-slung waist and billowy legs, they fueled many dreams of Jeannie.  It mattered not a whit that I didn’t own shoes worthy of their glamour, and so was forced to wear my scruffy Mary Janes.  Those pants’ beauty and power transcended even the most humble accompaniment, and announced to all that I was a girl of sophistication and taste. I was a hostess.

      But for all my willingness to indulge Helen, a few weeks ago, I realized that sometimes the clothing battle must be waged, not for my sake, but for hers. It was dance class day, and she had chosen a sky blue, hand-me-down leotard three sizes too large and those familiar, ratty purple tights (whose runs are so numerous that she recently asked me to apply Band-aids). I gently suggested that she wear her new tights and (properly-sized) leotard with the fancy little skirt, but was met with stony silence. Well-trained, I bundled my adorably silly creature into the car and headed out. 

      As always, she began class by running happily to the wall of mirrors to prance around in self-admiration. Those mirrors are Helen’s favorite part of class, but this time, they revealed something unexpected. Catching sight of herself, she visibly deflated, suddenly realizing that her actual appearance was completely at odds with her private vision. For the first time, she experienced the crushing truth that one person’s magically elegant is another person’s faintly ridiculous. For the rest of the class, she just stood quietly, her head hung low and her shoulders drooping in despair. The teacher and I tried, but she couldn’t move and wouldn’t leave, her desire to dance caught in a bittersweet pas de deux with her anxiety and self-consciousness.

      It goes without saying that I was awash with maternal guilt. It didn’t matter that Helen would have shrieked and snarled had I forced her to wear proper dance clothes. I should have been brave enough to save her from herself. Later in the day, after some gentle probing, she confided, “Sometimes I feel shy in dance because my leotard doesn’t have a skirt on it.” And with that tacit admission, we both reached a new, unspoken understanding of our respective roles in managing the wardrobe. Helen is still plenty opinionated about her clothes, but she’s a little more open to persuasion than she used to be. As for me, I’m still willing to let her be resolutely herself. But I won’t ever again let her wear anything that might leave her naked.

Leslie Watson is a freelance writer in Minneapolis. When she’s not shopping for replacement purple tights, she can be found online at www.thebusypen.com.