Yeah, so… I just realized that Broder and I are dressed EXACTLY alike today: black t-shirts, jeans (faded and distressed to perfection, of course), and (perfectly worn-in) low-top Converse sneakers.
This would be all fine and dandy if we’d both just stumbled downstairs, still bleary-eyed and in need of a hot cup of coffee (or eight) to wake us up properly, before we laughingly discovered – Hahahaha! We’re hilarious! – that we’d put on the same clothes, after which discovery we’d play a spirited (and, let’s admit it, highly competitive) round of rock-paper-scissors to decide who would have to go back to the closet and change clothes.
Because there is NO WAY we are leaving the house looking like identical twins. It was just a silly mistake that we’d dressed in the same outfit! I mean, really…
Perhaps you are surprised by this revelation of anti-matchy-matchy-outfit sentiments… And perhaps we, as a family, are missing out on some fantastically powerful cosmic-bonding experience… But, for some reason or another (and feel free to pity us), it turns out that we are not those people who go to amusement parks in matching track suits (oh, Six Flags, how I adore you) or the mall in the same khakis and polo shirts (did you know that polo shirts come in about 850 different colors?) or even take family photos wearing matching pajamas (though pajamas ARE comfortable, come to think of it – maybe I’ll have to revisit this come Christmas time; do you think the hubby’ll go for it?!).
Yeah, so, here’s the problem with today’s scenario… Broder? Broder is 22 months old.
Which means: he’s not really at the point yet where he picks the black t-shirt over the blue-and-white button-up (which, really, just make his pretty blue eyes POP!), nor does his discerning fashion taste make him favor the hipster-style jeans with the low-slung pockets over the more-conservative-but-warm flannel-lined chinos (also, it’s not that cold out today, and they’re getting a wee bit tight around that round and yummy belly of his). He has, on occasion, expressed a decided (and very LOUD) opinion over which shoes he will (or rather, will not) wear, but today was not that day – he happily let me wrestle him into his almost-too-small Chuck Taylors before we headed down to the kitchen. And I didn’t even NOTICE we were twinsies until HOURS later, when I woke him up from his nap and re-laced his sneakers (of course I take his shoes off for nap time! What kind of mother do you think I am?!).
Which means: I’m the one to blame. I’m the one who picked out his black t-shirt; I’m the one who buttoned him into the cool-kid jeans; I’m the one who chose the All-Stars over the Crocs. I’m the one to blame for the matching outfits. And sadly, it’s not the first time…
It turns out, if on any given day I’m the one responsible for picking out the clothes (which is almost always the case with the toddler; which is often the case with the 5yo, who, if given his druthers, would stay in his pajamas 24/7; and which hasn’t been the case with the 9yo since she was 3yo and started pairing her swimsuit cover-ups with polka dot tights and pink zebra-striped boots), I will, more frequently than I’d like to admit, gravitate toward those items in their wardrobes that look most like what I’m wearing. You see, if I’m wearing my orange cardigan, I want to grab the boys’ orange pants (by the way, it’s my opinion that every little kid should have orange pants – so cheery, and great for picking out in a playground crowd). If I’m wearing a navy blue sweatshirt, I’m likely handing out blue sweatshirts at the door. If I’m wearing shades of blue and gray or combining shades of brown and white, so are the boys. In my defense, I usually get myself and the boy (or boys) dressed in that foggy “Before Coffee” haze, a time when I should not be trusted to make any decisions at all other than which mug to use. And I usually catch myself in the act (the orange pants are very bright – enough to wake me up to the point where I’ll reach for the sweats, instead). Some days, however, I apparently don’t notice I’m dressed like my child’s (or children’s) identical twin (or triplet) until someone (usually very kindly, but still…) points out “how cute we look!” (and, c’mon – you know they never really mean it; what could possibly be cute about me looking like a toddler or a 5yo boy, or my 5yo or toddler looking like their crazy and clearly sleep-deprived 30-something mama??).
No, it’s now a little late in the day to dominate the toddler in a game of rock-paper-scissors (the kid throws rock every time, I mean really…) and force him to go back upstairs and change his clothes. We’ve already been seen in public, and I don’t really need to add to the laundry pile, it’s bad enough. So… So, I’m just going to go with it, today. We’ll be twinsies, a matched set, a perfect pair. People can call us “cute” as much as they like, and not mean it one little bit.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m drawing the line. No more dressing exactly alike. I get to wear the blue-and-white button-up, no matter how lovely his blue-and-white button-up makes his eyes look. He’ll have to settle for the orange pants.
But if he wants to wear his Converse, well, that’s okay. His are red and mine are black; that’s not too much the same, is it? And, really, it’s long been my opinion that the family that Chuck Taylors together, stays together.
Wait. What?? Did I just write (out loud) that it’s okay for family members to wear the same thing?! Hmm… well, maybe there’s something to this matchy-matchy-outfit sentiment after all… maybe it is some sort of fantastically powerful cosmic-bonding experience…
Hmm… Looks like I need to go buy Broder a new pair of Chuck Taylors that actually fit.
But if he demands a black pair, I’ll rock-paper-scissors him for it. And you know how that’s going to play out. He can have a green pair, if he asks nicely… I don’t have any green shoes.