The other day I got out the rest of our summer clothes to sort through. I had the boys try on shorts and t-shirts to see what fit whom. C found a pair of shorts and a shirt that he remembered from several summers back. Size 4T. (He’s a size 6-7, 8.)
He told me it was his favorite outfit. I said that was nice. But that, you know, you can’t wear it because it doesn’t fit you anymore. He was disappointed.
Then, early the next week, he came downstairs wearing the outfit. Again, I told him that it wasn’t for him anymore. It was too tight and too small. He was even more disappointed this time than before. I relented to let him wear it that day, but I told him he couldn’t wear it ever again.
I also took the opportunity to point out, throughout the day, how it was too small. Like, how tight the waistband was. How his belly showed if he only slightly lifted his arms.
So, he tucked in his shirt.
Which reminded me of myself.
I was living in O’Fallon, IL. I think I was about 4 years old. It was a pair of knit pink pants and a matching pink and white striped shirt. I loved it. I wore it all the time.
And then one day, my Mom said it was too small. I resisted. She finally said that I had to ask my Dad what he thought and if he said it was too small, I had to give it up. I waited for him to come home. Finally, I remember my Mom calling me to come into the living room where they were relaxing after a long day of work. He looked at me, pointed to my belly and said, “It must be too small because I can see your belly button.”
For years afterwards, I thought, if only I’d worn an undershirt, I could still be wearing that outfit.