I am far too young to protest, and even if I had a voice my bet is that you would not listen to me anyway. So I may as well just write it all down here for you to read at a later date.
Mumma, what is with you dressing me up in dad’s clothes? Every couple of weeks you get a bee in your bonnet (I learned that on Peppa Pig this morning) and dig our dad’s vintage outfits and dress me in them…when we are, of all times, going out in public.
Sure its kind of quirky, and Oma gets a real thrill of seeing me in her son’s threads. But I’m not convinced. Colourful circus motifs on the front of polyester button-down shirts needs some getting used to. What happened to my cozy cotton onesies you brought back from Australia? Ooh I liked those; they never gave me chafing between the legs.
But I digress. I know you love me silly and get your kicks out of dressing me up, so I will let this one slide to the keeper. Dad’s threads on my back will do, but only till the time I begin to walk…’coz you know I’ll just run away from you. And then it’ll be sayonara rayon. Hallo brushed Egyptian cotton.
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