It Only Took Me 9.75 Years

My daughters are rough and tumble.  They are hard on clothes, hair accessories, and their own bodies.  I try to dress them up, I try to "do" their hair.  It usually takes mere minutes for them to revert back to their natural state: unkempt, with holes at the knees.  Cute hair bands unravel at their touch.  Pretty blouses are christened with paint or mud or both within days.  I've used more bandaids on my three daughters in nine years than I have on my two boys in thirteen.

I had a realization this morning as I was searching for a non-shredded pair of tights for Thing One to wear.  All this time I've thought I was buying tights for my daughters, pondering which ones to buy, trying to keep them organized in a cute and tidy little stocking basket, I haven't actually been buying tights.  I've been buying disposable socks.

It stops now.  No more wasted money.  No more standing and staring in the Target aisle.  I'm taking a stand against tights.  No more tights.

I'll find something else to do with that cute basket.  Maybe I'll keep my Y2K supply of bandaids in there.

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