When I went to my nephew's play I made t-shirts for my kids - all the better to mortify him with, my dear. They had his face across the chest, repeated in several colors à la Andy Warhol. It is not subtle.
Lucy chose to wear hers to school today, paired with a denim mini skirt, orange socks and striped leggings. The leggings matched the shirt because they had pink green blue aqua orange yellow chartreuse black white beige and tangelo stripes.
My daughter is nothing if not vertigo inducing.
This is the outfit she wore to the ballet class she observed this evening. When the teacher asked if she'd like to participate, she hid her face in my coat pocket and whispered "I don't have the right shoes."
The right shoes? Did she not notice the sea of black leotards with pink tights? Did she not realize that she looked like Jackson Pollock's studio floor? On acid?
Still, she couldn't hold out forever and when the ballet teacher asked a second time Lucy leaped into the fray. I did my best not to snort out loud as she twirled amid her top-knot coiffed contemporaries. She was dizzying on so many levels.
The teacher was pleased and suggested we sign her up with the older girls. "She can take any class she wants," she told me. "There will be no problem at all." My heart swelled with pride. And then I realized that the stripes and prints had hypnotized the teacher and if we had asked her to bark like a dog and go make us cinnamon toast she would have happily complied.