Little Mismatched

Every morning this week has been a fashion nightmare. I don't mean anything as mundane as outdated clothing or too many choices. My younger daughter loves bright, garish clothing and I'm convinced will grow up to be either a premier fashion designer or a circus clown. I have nothing against either of these professions as long as she's happy, but I would prefer her to grasp a few basic fashion concepts such as "pick your clothes from the closet, not the hamper" or "magenta plaids and hunter green stripes do not go together in any known universe." Yet we again found ourselves in the before school battle over why a shirt with bright purple and green hearts doesn't match pants that are covered in hot pink horizontal stripes. In the the resulting tears and tantrums I don't even mention the fact that the pants now hit her above the ankle and the shirt is wrinkled and smelly from wearing it 2 days ago. I know, I know she's only six, but it's hard to send her off to face a classroom full of other kids wearing the fashion equivalent of a bullseye. So I am stuck between letting her be the exuberant and colorful ray of sunshine that is Elisabeth, and protecting that same special quality from the damage of an unkind word. I know there are lessons to be learned from such childhood hardships, but in the end I had her change into matching pants. I'd rather she keep that inner light whole a while longer.