Yesterday, Inigo chose his outfit (as he is wont to do), and it was a stunner. His tie dyed hippy rainbow shirt (which says “my dad reads to me”), and purple fleece pants with a butterfly on the hip. His hair was looking spectacularly curly, and I had a hair clip (black though!) to keep it out of his eyes.
In Medicare, the woman at the counter complimented my beautiful daughter on her lovely manners (he likes to hand over the medicare card), and I decided to let it slide. I mean, in that outfit, who would guess he was a boy? Often I do correct people, but they get very embarrassed, and I really didn’t have much extra emotional energy yesterday.
But Inigo did. “But I’m a boy”, he piped up with.
Classic. You could have cut the air with a knife. And I look like the strangest mother in the world.
“He likes to choose his own clothes”, I squeaked. It was the best I could do in the circumstances.