Mr. Right-Click came back from the mall the other day with this dress.
“Fine, you can dress her in that, if you want, but I won’t be doing it,” I announced.
“You know, she’s going to want to wear stuff like this,” he said.
“Not when she’s a newborn, she won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Newborn clothes should be comfortable, cotton, soft stuff. Newborns sleep most of the time, when they’re not crying. Who would sleep in something like that?”
“Dresses are comfortable . . .”
“How many dresses have you worn in your life?”
” . . .”
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
This is going to be difficult for me.
Part of me is happy that Mr. Right-Click bought the dress because, in my mind, it is a product of how much he cherishes the idea of having a little girl of his own. If I’m in the right mood, I can even get a little weepy about it, because when I hear Mr. Right-Click talk about our daughter and how she will be a little princess, then I think how fantastic it is, that my daughter will have a father who cherishes her like that. I think about how there’s probably nothing better in the world than that for her future happiness. I like that part.
But then I think, at some point, there’s a good chance she’ll start wanting to wear that stuff on her own. Maybe it will be because of socialization, or maybe it’s something that is hard-wired, or whatever, who knows? And if and when she does that, then I will go along with it just like I do when Mini announces that he wants to get a five-foot-tall Fathead sticker of Optimus Prime to put on his bedroom wall. Even though I cannot really think of many things that are worse than a five-foot-tall Fathead sticker of Optimus Prime on a bedroom wall. Except maybe a white satin dress with a lace overlay. For a newborn.