The women reading this can probably relate.
So I let him wear the pants. At home. At school. Wherever.
The pants make him happy. The pants make him feel good about himself. They go from day to night, from monkey bars to Michael Jackson impersonations. They look especially nice with his tight Lycra swim shirt. (The Lycra swim shirt is a rock star wardrobe staple, in case you weren’t aware.) Really, I have no issue with my son’s velveteen pants, except that he insists on wearing them every single day, regardless of whether they are caked in mud and starting to smell.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I can’t smell me at all,” he’ll say, bending at the waist and sniffing his knees.
Yesterday, just before I was about to start the wash cycle, I went to the bathroom to grab a few towels, and in the meantime Gus had hoisted himself up into the washing machine pulled out the velveteen pants, dressed for church and emerged looking like Mick Jagger had just climbed out of a drainage ditch.
When I told him he had to change into clean clothes, he started screaming at me about how he has NOTHING to wear and it’s not FAIR and I am the worst mom EVER. And clearly I am also MEAN because I just WANT him to look stupid.
“And don’t forget fat,” I said, as he stormed upstairs to his room. “You know how I LOVE to make you look fat.”