We have been blessed. Rowan has 2 female cousins who are older than she is, and every few months, we receive bulging boxes from Montana filled with clothes. I rarely need to buy anything, though I sometimes snag a bargain that I know will be cute on her, and I always have more clothes than she can wear. So many things are adorable and fit her perfectly. But some of it isn't my style, so it doesn't get worn often. Then, I feel the inevitable guilt.
It's perfectly good. Practically brand new!
But it'll look weird. Or silly. Or too girly. Or sparkly. Or (insert random reason here).
But it's hardly even been used? Certainly she could wear it once?
So some things never get worn, spending their time at the bottom of the drawer until they are (phew) too small and relegated to the plastic bin in the closet.
The other day, I pulled out an adorable pair of Osh Kosh sage green cords. The shape, the style, the color--all great. But? They had some weird crocheted flowers attached to them that had shrunk into little pink and orange globs. Stuck to the legs. So, while Rowan was in the bath, I pulled out my seam ripper and voilà!!! Plain pants!
I felt so powerful.
Then I grabbed the coral polka dot baby blazer. With the dumb bows. Pluck! Pluck! Bows begone!!!
I dressed her for church in the sage pants with a pink turtleneck and white sweater. She looked great, sans crocheted pink and orange blobs. (I'm saving the blazer for another time.)
I was SuperMom.
Monday morning came, and I searched her closet for something comfy to wear. And I saw it.
The black velour jogging suit. With the embroidered pink butterflies. It was so cute, and it looked brand new. Likely never even washed. And she looks so good in black.
EXCEPT that the hood was lined. With feathers. Pink maribou feathers.
I couldn't do it. Her face would be surrounded by pink fluff that belonged on Blanch Devereau's bedroom slipper. I just couldn't put my strong, tough little girl in something like that.
So while she was in the bath, I grabbed a scissor, and started to work on the stitches.
Man, this is really hard to get at. All these stupid feathers. Those women in that Chinese sweatshop must have been really determined. Fluff and fluff and... SNEEZE. Oh, this sucks. Fine, I'll just cut it. Oh, NO! Fluff! And Fluff! And FLLLLUUUUFFFFFF!!! Oh, NO!!! What have I done???
It was everywhere. On my jeans, stuck to my sweater. In my hair. Infiltrating my contact lenses. Up my nose. In my mouth. On the floor, stuck to the shower curtain, floating in the air. And then? It crossed the barrier into her bath.
And she did not like it. Not one bit.
For the very first time in her life, Rowan asked to get out of the tub.
She clung to me, naked, screaming and terrified.
Of pink maribou feathers.
My tough little habanero-sauce eating girl, taken down by fluffy, rose-colored birdie bits.