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Fashion and Expectations
It seems that summer is finally releasing us from its humid grip and finally letting fall set in. This is invigorating and sobering in many ways, not the least of which being that I didn't realize my child had grown. The chill set in and I pulled out all of my favorite footie outfits that Felix looked so picturesque wearing in April, and ended up having to retire them immediately. Don't ask what I was thinking. Clearly, I wasn't.
I was unconsciously following a pattern that had been established by my own father with his kids. A small but potent photographic record reveals that my father was something of an origami master when it came to stuffing a child into an outfit several sizes too small. Some of my favorite pictures from my infancy reveal me prone and immobile in the style of a baby harp seal next to my father while he was reading. Given that my outfits were so tight you could bounce coins off my belly, there was certainly no worry that I would roll anywhere. Those days are not destined to repeat themselves, since I don't have my father's talent, and getting Felix dressed at all tries his patience.
We have come to the end of the clothes that Felix got either as hand-me-downs or birth presents, and now that I have to start actually dressing him myself, I am a little bemused, since for so long he has been wearing what other people thought would be cute or handsome or amusing. He has worn everything from tiny NBA-logo shorts to Oshkosh overalls, and slick black onesies designed by RISD graduates. But the most controversial of all his clothes is a piece of classic British babywear: the smocked bubblesuit. Someone very close to my husband's family presented Felix with this piece of tradition and my mother-in-law had but one thing to say about it: "It's very cute but it needs to be ironed. Take pictures the first time he wears it because you won't have the energy."
I can't say she was wrong and I followed her advice, but if people's responses are anything to go by, those late summer photographs will be better blackmail tools than any of those shots of him in the bathtub or wearing the bunny-foot stretchie.
My mother: "He's a tough guy. What's he doing in frills?"
My mother-in-law: "Well, it's a little feminine, don't you think?"
Felix's babysitter: "That's very funny."
Felix's babysitter's friend: "How could they dress him like a girl? Does his father know she did that to him?"
The outfit, which has been retired due to autumn, leg girth, and an internal labor dispute (I won't iron it) never struck me as objectionable. It is so incredibly British, with its little sailboats and pale blue checked cotton, that I never once thought about it seeming girly. You can see the offending outfit above, with the wearer's face conveniently turned to protect his self-respect.
Then again, I never mind when people think Felix is a girl anyway; babies are kind of interchangeable, even my own. After he was born, my husband took my mother to see Felix in the nursery where he was getting a blood test and the two of them spent a fair amount of time waving at a completely random kid. So where's the offense in strangers getting his gender wrong?
The way I figure it is this: sooner than later, Felix will have too many opinions about what he wears and I'll never be able to inflict things like his Spitfaced t-shirt on him again, but more importantly, I went for eight months without having to make more than the most casual decisions about what he should look like. Those days are winding down and given how difficult it is for me to shop for myself, I miss them already.
posted by Elise at 10:06 AM
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