Clothes make the June

I had an unusually hard time picking out an outfit this morning.

It was a crummy day, so it had to be something comfortable. We weren't planning on going anywhere, so it didn't have to be anything special or need to be jammed in a raincoat. But just for a little boost of confidence amid all this bad weather, I wanted something fun and colorful.

Pink stretch pants and a polka dot hoodie it was.

You've all read enough USA Today articles to see that writing device coming from a mile away. Wait a sec! She's talking about her daughter! Not her! How clever!

And yet, I still use it. Amateur.

Anyway, such is the decision making process for dressing my daughter. Even on the days where I know the only mammals we'll interact with are a couple of mutts wont to eat her dirty diapers, I go through the same a.m. rigamarole.

I open her dresser drawer and pull out all manners of pastel loungewear, peter pan collars, cardigans and novelty socks. For someone who isn't herself preppy at all, I seem to be dressing my daughter like a drooling Rory Kennedy. Alas, I pull each item out, drape it over her wriggling person, prone on her changing table, and weigh the possibilities. Is it warm enough? Will she be comfortable? Does it make the most of her beautiful coloring? Did the sh*t stain come out? Then after careful deliberation do I make the plunge. Three times out of five she's crapped clear out of it within an hour and back in her ill-fitting fuzzy jammies with reindeers all over 'em. Point being, the gal needs to, at the very least, attempt to put on a proper outfit in the morning.

The buck (reindeer segue intended) stops at June, however. This morning after I actually switched up her outfit mid-change because option No. 1 didn't play up her eyes enough, I shuffled into my room and slapped this doozy on my pasty butt: jeans that weren't flattering five years ago when I bought them, much less now with a substantial post-partum muffin top, a sweater oft chosen for its vomit repelling properties, and to cap it off, slippers that are a couple strands of DNA away from getting up and walking out on their own.

When I was packing us up for Phoenix last month, I pulled out a suitcase that could have reasonably fit both of our clothes for a long weekend. Could have. After carefully folding the fifth pair of "fancy pants" and reaching the meniscus of the bag, I brought out the big guns. An orange monstrosity we've nicknamed "Big O." It's the sort of suitcase where you do an internal "No whammies! No whammies! No whammies!" when the ticket agent at the airport puts it on the scale, even if it's half-full.

I filled it. Mostly with her stuff.

This annual trip used to be where I'd roadtest my own spring looks. Break out the creamy white gams, kick it in some sundresses, see what accessories work with what duds. I put a lot of thought into this stuff, which is interesting considering I never really looked that good.

But this is the Junie Show now. Ain't nobody looking at me, and plus, sundresses are pretty impractical if you're a breastfeeding mother and don't take kindly to sitting on a picnic bench in the Phoenix Muni beer garden in nothing but sensible drawers and a pair of flipflops.

I have transferred most of my clothes fixations onto my dear girl, with a notable predilection toward those aforementioned peter pan collars and gingham.

I know precisely where this interest, nay, obsession comes from.

My own mother.

She has, for years, said she wants to launch a "What Not to Wear" spinoff about kids clothing. Mention a baby bikini and you might get a response about how people have 80-some years to look like adults and only three to look like babies so what's the hurry. She makes a convincing argument about why putting an infant in a novelty tu-tu is a bad idea. Bring up Gwen Stefani's boys and their tendency to tackily overaccessorize, she'll counter with their Easter 2010 "Little Lord Fontleroy" knee-sock get-ups. But whatever you do, don't utter the words "baby tuxedo" in her presence.

You're not ready for it.

The first time I ever brought Greg home to meet my parents, so early in our dating days that my parents didn't even know that we were dating, my mom somehow got fired up about baby tuxedos. Frankly, I have no idea what could have triggered it. We were sitting in their back room with the big farm table, having a nice little casual chat and then the conversation took a dark turn toward itty bitty bow ties and cummerbunds. My mom's voice, always sweet and loving, got a little loud. I remember derailing the diatribe to nervously explain to Greg, "Uhh, hahaha, uh, She feels very strongly about kids clothes."

Mom, I'm here to tell you I get it. I really do.

I've been humbled by how unbelievably generous friends and family have been with gifts, many of which were clothing. I'm also impressed that everyone has good taste -- or at least my taste -- because I love everything she has received. My mom is right about one thing: babies ought to look like babies. Not little John Gosselins in training.

June is dressed like a baby.

Anyone who knows me well is aware of the sort of psychotic relationship I have with my duds. I used to boast being able to recall the outfit I wore on some of the more insignificant days of my life. Simply put, if I could remember the day, I could remember what I wore. I'll admit I've fallen off a bit since June was born, but only because I've reassigned that talent (?) to her wardrobe. I attribute this flirtation with savant-itude to being in preschool, wearing a pair of purple overalls and a turtleneck with pink and purple hearts on it, and standing in a group of classmates wearing dresses. A mother dropping off her child walked past and said, "Oh, look at you girls, all pretty in your dresses!"

I was devastated. Little Kerry Leonard was not wearing a dress, ipso facto I was a troll.

Don't think I don't remember that moment every time I snap the crotch of June's tear-away Oshgosh B'Goshes.

But overalls aside, most of her "daywear" resembles jammies, meaning they have a "footy" feature. So I can see why Greg shakes his head when I change her out of a "jammy" set with footies and hearts into a "romper" set with footies and hearts. If it were up to him entirely, she'd spend the day in her boy's dinosaur jams. Ladies, can I get a amen?

On the days when he does dress her, and she is paraded through the living room wearing a get-up clearly (admittedly to me only)meant as nightwear, I'll say to him, "This is not the Playboy Mansion! We get dressed in this house!"

The cruel irony being this soapbox is usually mounted while I'm wearing a bathrobe.

But clothes are my thing so Greg gladly passes that baton.

It might sound a little crazy, but I talk to my mom every day. Sometimes multiple times. The trend started when we moved to Springfield and needed to touch base for wedding plans. It accelerated when I was pregnant and sought guidance. Now those phone calls are to gush about my sweet girl, and garnished with a near-daily skyping.

Every morning during that first call she asks, "What is June wearing today?"

She used to ask that question of me.

But I totally understand why she queries. When that time comes where I can't see June every day, I hope to Jesus she calls me and tells me in detail everything she has on, so I can have her in, as my mom would say, my mind's eye.

Tomorrow when I put her in her white Polo romper with the ruffled collar (it's supposed to be nice. I've been known to plan ahead), she'll be in mind's eye and my arms alike.