There comes a time when we mommies have to learn to take a back seat,  and let our little ones go out on their own and test their wings.

Uh. Yesterday was not that time.

Blonde and I have a deal. He dresses himself every morning.  It’s a simple plan:  He makes sure he has a shirt, underwear, socks, pants. Every morning. And really, it is foolproof because my boys don’t ever really have to match (that’s just crazy), and they wear the same sizes, practically. The uniform is the same, every day. T-shirt. Pants with no holes. Clean Spiderman undies. Nooooo problem.

Looking back now, I realize there was a simple flaw in my reasoning:

DO NOT EVER TRUST A 6 YEAR OLD WITH SIMPLE TASKS. THAT’S JUST CRAZY.

The six year old mind has the ability to problem solve about as well as Congress.  It starts out all, “I’m gonna get dressed! Let’s do this! And maybe figure out a way to solve the immigration problem! And, while I’m at it, lower taxes! But also help our schools! And Ebola! Help it!”

And, five minutes later: “Look,  let’s just pass a bill that makes something a state bird. And I got on pants with no holes. I’ll fix everything else tomorrow.”

What can we do? We voted Blonde into office six years ago.

 

I noticed a small issue when Blonde arrived downstairs but we were in full throttle, Days of Thunder, GET IN THE CAR GO GO GO, mode because, well alarm clocks are hard.

Blonde’s pants were a little… small. Just a notch.   I pulled them down a bit, adjusted his hoodie over them, voila!~ no problem! It’s basically how I dress every day anyhow.  Problem with small pants?  HOODIE IT UP,  YA’LL.  Hoodies cover a multitude of sins.  Hoodie don’t care.

 

The problem here was that my poor son had neglected to tell me that his school, for some unknown fashion faux- pas reason was anti-hoodie.

… And he just happened to have on a dirty white t-shirt underneath. One that was about the size to fit a Ken doll.  If Ken wanted to look rather weird and homeless.

So, when  I went to pick up the little guy, he came running out, all “Mommiiiiieeeee!”

And I was all:    If I leave now, no one will know that is my kid.

I mean, what would YOU do if a tiny Richard Simmons was running up to you, kinda willy nilly, with a flapping Spiderman backpack and a misguided dream in aerobics instruction? What made this moment even more interesting is that there seems to be a mathematical formula for embarrassing behavior with children:

C (child) + EB (embarrassing behavior) x MP (mom proximity) = EW (epic weirdness)/ H (horror)

Or something like that.

 

 

Now, before you start emailing me, I did claim the kid. Crop top and miniscule boy leggings and all.  I gave him a big hug and kiss and we Jazzercized outta there as fast as we could go.  Blonde added a couple grapevine steps for added flair.  I put my dignity away as he step-ball-kicked it down the street. The kid was completely oblivious to the fact that he was a walking “fashion don’t” column.  I even detected a bit of a swagger in the vacuum-packed bottom of his  teeny jeggings.

Move along, tiny dancer.

 

 

 

 

Lesson learned. This was all proper motivation for me to clean out the closets and drawers.  All I have to do now is set out an outfit for wee Blonde.  I dunno… maybe something like… THIS:

 

 

What?