I never played with dolls when I was a child. It’s not that I had any dolls to play dress up with, I did. I had an ugly Cabbage Patch doll named Esther who sat in the back of my closet collecting dust and a box full of Barbie dolls my brother eventually found, tore the heads off and filled them with ketchup only to use them for target practice when he was older.
Playing dress up never appealed to me as a child. I was too busy playing with worms and getting dirty to worry myself over what my dolls were wearing.
And then I had babies where I discovered the joy of playing dress up with my children. Not that I’m saying my children are living dolls or anything. That would be wrong. Ahem.
Unfortunately for me, my older children have grown up and are less than interested in me selecting their wardrobes. Nowadays it’s all about personal expression and the freedom of choice. Half the time the clothing choices I make for my older kids are met with scorn and derision.
However, I’m not hooched just yet. Just when my eldest children stopped letting me dress them, I adopted the Jumbster. And he’s all about letting his momma dress him.
He’s a good boy like that. It helps that he’s only seven but developmentally much younger. It also helps that he can’t roll his eyes or tell me that I’m outta my tree if I think I’m putting him in that.
Non-verbal children are way easier than the verbal ones in that department.
So when Old Navy knocked on our door and offered Jumbster and I 150 smackers to outfit the little dude as part of a paid sponsorship thingy, well, let’s just say I hopped all over it.
Jumbster has a reputation to uphold as one of the spiffiest dressers in his entire grade two class, you know.
I was excited to pick out new clothes for my son. My son was excited to go for a car ride and pop a wheelie in Old Navy. It’s the little things in life, you know.
After the initial excitement of dad wheeling Jumbster around like he was a racecar and popping those wheelies, Jumby got down to the serious business of picking out some new duds. He takes this task very seriously. By which I mean, he flings most things to the floor and giggles like a loon. We may have left a few nicely folded tables not so neatly folded after we were through. My apologies to the Old Navy staff. Ahem.
Um Mom? You seemed to have confused my wheelchair for a shopping cart. Send help.
Soon enough, Jumbster was laden with his purchases and I was excited about the prospect of skinny jeans. Because when you have a seven-year-old son who only weighs 38 pounds, skinny jeans are the only pants that don’t look ridiculous on him. Every other cut of pant swims on the little duffer.
Once we got home, Jumby and I decided to model his new outfits for his older siblings. Nothing says family fun like having an impromptu fashion show for the family.
Jumby put on a good show while somebody (probably me) quoted Zoolander more than once, thereby cementing her dork factor in her older children’s eyes.
However, I’m sure Jumbster will agree when I tell you I’m pretty sure there’s a lot more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. And he plans on finding out what that is.