I love Kid Style.
I'm going to caps that because I can say, with utmost confidence, that it's a thing. There have been numerous occasions on which a parent has dropped off their child to my classroom, bashfully explaining that the student chose their own clothes that morning. Truth be told, I can usually tell when that's happened; and I love it. I love that, not only has the child been given the agency to make the choice and practice practical life skills, but that I get the opportunity to see their Kid Style (caps).
I love that Kid Style isn't bound by the same rules that Adult Style seems to be. Kid Style is all about comfort - or not. It can be as practical as a pair of pajamas or as whimsical as a princess costume. It's a thoughtful expression of identity just as readily as it is a mandatory nuisance. Kid Style is whatever the wearer wants it to be, and I fully support this idea of Adult Style, as well.
(Personally, I would wear tiaras and high heels to work every day, but I'm a preschool teacher. So instead, I wear glittery Danskos and leggings with loud patterns and just about anything else that will make me happy when I see it a million times throughout the day. True story: When I was an undergrad at my performing arts college, a professor once mistook my everyday wear for a costume. I've toned it down a bit since then, but I love color and sparkles, and I will wear them until I die.)
Kid Style takes on a new meaning when I look at it through the lens of being a mom to two young girls. Each day, they experiment with their appearances with a sense of freedom and joy. There are some limits, but their appearances generally are a reflection of their choices. Multiple strands of necklaces? Sure! Five ponytails? I'll try my best. Two different shoes? Why not?! I'm aware that, as with all things, they are watching my behavior, too. I'm mindful of my language. I explain that I sometimes wear makeup because I think it's fun (not because it makes me "pretty") and that I change my hair color because I want to try something new (not to "cover my grays").
So I was thrown for a loop by the visceral reaction I had as my youngest daughter played with her recent birthday gift of "real makeup." Not satisfied by her Christmas gift of pretend makeup, these kits are hyper-pigmented - and she uses as heavy a hand as you would imagine a fresh five-year-old would use. As I blissfully watched her delight in applying her new makeup, I could practically hear the record scratch when she sweetly asked, "Can I wear it to school?"
No. Wait, what? What was that I was feeling? It was fear. Her blue eyes sparkling up at me expectantly, I saw a long road ahead of us. I saw all the dress codes implying that her body is distracting and shameful. I saw the insidious influence of media that will tell her - for the rest of her life - that she is never enough as she is. I saw the brutal, constant, unspoken understanding that the choices she makes about the way she looks could be used to justify violence towards her. For a moment, my young daughter flushed with excitement and neon blush, I felt the overwhelming instinct to shield her, to protect her from all that.
I've been a woman in this world for 37 years. I know I can't prevent that inevitable road from cruelly unfolding before the both of us. I know she will hear repeated messages that may make her think she is the sum of her looks.
But she won't hear it from her mom.
I smiled.
"Of course," I said.
I'm going to caps that because I can say, with utmost confidence, that it's a thing. There have been numerous occasions on which a parent has dropped off their child to my classroom, bashfully explaining that the student chose their own clothes that morning. Truth be told, I can usually tell when that's happened; and I love it. I love that, not only has the child been given the agency to make the choice and practice practical life skills, but that I get the opportunity to see their Kid Style (caps).
I love that Kid Style isn't bound by the same rules that Adult Style seems to be. Kid Style is all about comfort - or not. It can be as practical as a pair of pajamas or as whimsical as a princess costume. It's a thoughtful expression of identity just as readily as it is a mandatory nuisance. Kid Style is whatever the wearer wants it to be, and I fully support this idea of Adult Style, as well.
(Personally, I would wear tiaras and high heels to work every day, but I'm a preschool teacher. So instead, I wear glittery Danskos and leggings with loud patterns and just about anything else that will make me happy when I see it a million times throughout the day. True story: When I was an undergrad at my performing arts college, a professor once mistook my everyday wear for a costume. I've toned it down a bit since then, but I love color and sparkles, and I will wear them until I die.)
Kid Style takes on a new meaning when I look at it through the lens of being a mom to two young girls. Each day, they experiment with their appearances with a sense of freedom and joy. There are some limits, but their appearances generally are a reflection of their choices. Multiple strands of necklaces? Sure! Five ponytails? I'll try my best. Two different shoes? Why not?! I'm aware that, as with all things, they are watching my behavior, too. I'm mindful of my language. I explain that I sometimes wear makeup because I think it's fun (not because it makes me "pretty") and that I change my hair color because I want to try something new (not to "cover my grays").
So I was thrown for a loop by the visceral reaction I had as my youngest daughter played with her recent birthday gift of "real makeup." Not satisfied by her Christmas gift of pretend makeup, these kits are hyper-pigmented - and she uses as heavy a hand as you would imagine a fresh five-year-old would use. As I blissfully watched her delight in applying her new makeup, I could practically hear the record scratch when she sweetly asked, "Can I wear it to school?"
No. Wait, what? What was that I was feeling? It was fear. Her blue eyes sparkling up at me expectantly, I saw a long road ahead of us. I saw all the dress codes implying that her body is distracting and shameful. I saw the insidious influence of media that will tell her - for the rest of her life - that she is never enough as she is. I saw the brutal, constant, unspoken understanding that the choices she makes about the way she looks could be used to justify violence towards her. For a moment, my young daughter flushed with excitement and neon blush, I felt the overwhelming instinct to shield her, to protect her from all that.
I've been a woman in this world for 37 years. I know I can't prevent that inevitable road from cruelly unfolding before the both of us. I know she will hear repeated messages that may make her think she is the sum of her looks.
But she won't hear it from her mom.
I smiled.
"Of course," I said.
