Boots? Sweater? Coat?

I’m getting fed up with being sensible. My brain is creating intelligible, perfectly reasonable statements, but by the time they flow out of my mouth all anyone can hear is the “Wawhn-wawhn-wah-wah-Wonk” of that teacher from the Peanuts cartoons. It’s seriously frustrating.

Okay, so it’s almost May, and the sky is blue with puffy white clouds, but if you are heading to the barren flat lands which are our town soccer fields in the evening, you may as well just dress for the tundra. The wind is whistling. The sky switches to storm clouds before halftime. And for such a seemingly dry season, the puddles are epic. Denying any of this only causes misery.

Yet deny it they do. M dresses in only her short-sleeve t-shirt for the 7 pm game tonight. When I give Cute W an extra long-sleeve shirt to bring along, her eyes roll like she’s a mare who’s been over-whipped on a Little House on the Prairie episode. Moments later I see J’s sneakers and suggest the rain boots and she protests like I’ve just told her that her shoe choice makes her a loathsome and worthless human being.

I retreat, muttering that it doesn’t really matter, I don’t care what they wear to the game.

Later, I am careful not to look too smug when M pulls on the fleece that I brought along.

Instead, I remind myself, again, of a conversation M and I had last week. Last Friday was the Girls Scouts’ Father-Daughter Dance, and M left the house wearing jeans shorts and a t-shirt. I prevailed upon her to allow me to stow a sundress in the car, just in case. As soon as they saw they saw the arrivals in the parking lot, Cute W reported, M changed in the car.

“Well,” M put in, “There was one girl who was wearing shorts at the dance.”

“And they said it was okay to wear shorts, but it’s nice to have a choice,” I said. “Did she seem like she was happy with the shorts?”

M laughed. “No way. She looked pretty uncomfortable. I felt kind of sorry for her. She doesn’t have you for a mom.”