This morning Daddy Pig dressed The Boy with No Name. Which is why he ended up in a pair of short pyjamas with bananas all over them.
‘Why is he wearing pyjamas?’
This is the question I ask Daddy Pig.
‘I couldn’t find anything else.’
‘Where did you look?’ I say.
‘The floor,’ he says pointing to the pile of clean washing that hasn’t yet escalated to the next stage in the washing process. Stage 3 – Floor to Drawer. ‘There wasn’t anything else.’
It didn’t occur to Daddy Pig to check his wardrobe or chest of drawers. In which perfectly appropriate daytime clothes live.
No, let’s dress him in bananas instead.
Because they are right there. On the floor. In front of him.
‘Don’t you wish your baby was hot like mine?’
It’s not even as if the boy has the legs for shorts.
He certainly can’t rock a pair of hot pants like Kylie Minogue. Which is how these shorts come up on him. Hot pants. No, he looks more like that man in the Go Compare advert. Massive thighs. Tiny shorts. (I wish I could show you. But I can’t do that to him. I just can’t.)
And I imagine he has felt pretty self conscious today. In his banana shorts, when all the other babies he’s come into contact with are wearing self-respecting outfits.
Without so much as a melon or pineapple in sight.
The absent trousers.
Daddy Pig has always shied away from dressing our kids. And looked slightly nervous whenever I’ve suggested it. To be fair, sometimes he’s got it right. But more often than not, he’s got it very, very wrong.
And now the girls are dressing themselves, they also get it very, very wrong. Because they’ve learned from the master.
So, Beaver always wears socks with her sandals. Godivy only wants to wear her crap, worn nursery clothes ALL THE TIME. They both have a talent for completely ignoring the seasons and the weather. Yes, we wear silk playsuits in the winter and thermal leggings in the summer. As for The Boy with No Name? Well, we know what fate lies in store for him.
I guess it all stems from Daddy Pig’s own relationship with clothes, which is questionable to say the least. I mean, this is the man who cycled to work, forgot his trousers and sat in his pants all day.
But they didn’t have bananas on, did they?
Two crazy cat ladies and banana-man.
Now I know I could dress the kids myself. I could have them looking, erm, presentable.
But aside from the fact that I’m so damn tired I can barely dress myself, the girls won’t let me near their wardrobes now. They know exactly what they’re wearing thank you very much and no one is telling them otherwise.
And actually, I think it’s ok. In theory anyway. Because it’s important for kids to have a say in the little things they can actually have a say in. We dictate pretty much every other area of their lives. When they sleep. What they eat. Where they go. Letting them choose their own clothes hurts no one (apart from maybe the fashion police) and helps them develop their own sense of style (ahem) and identity, right?
And who knows? Just maybe we’re nurturing a future Vivienne Westwood.
Either that. Or a middle-aged banana-man and a couple of crazy, old cat ladies.