What’s absolutely just as frustrating to tackle as picky eating daily among kiddos is picky dressing.

Heaven forfend!

Picky dressing, which really sounds more like some sort of spicy bottled concoction one would pour onto his leafy green salad as notes of fiesta music wafted about the atmosphere, is what my oldest born combats continually.

To be overtly particular about choosing one’s clothing is not resorted to girls alone, I assure you. Finickiness knows absolutely no gender.

As my oldest continues to claim his stake in his increasing independence – for as much as a sprightly 5-year-old can muster – he’s decided to display said independence with his insistence on choosy clothing choices.

No one would know the range and variety of his apparel stuffed in bureau drawers or hung in his closet, because his preferred selections remain among limited few favorite outfits, all comfortable and well-loved.

Cozy pants that may run a bit short. Tops that are slightly faded. Entire outfits that probably could stand to better mix and match.

Often times I step in, and we work to strike a balance.

I try to pick my battles. I truly do. But it’s a full-on clash when the outfit I see before me is also a full-on clash.

But beneath the surface, this is conceivably all hypocritical deja vu.

You see, I was no better once. As a tot, I was painstakingly picky about my clothing picks, particularly when it came time to dress up ‘Sunday-Best’ style.

Oh, ‘Sunday Best’. Read: ‘Discomfort-at-its-Finest.’

To the rest of the world, it reflected I was adorably outfitted in a lacy, pinafore-y, doll-type dress likely gifted by a member of close kin.

Because I adorned a pixie coif – my parents’ answer to my thick, tangled untamable tresses – it was likely my mom’s way to emphasize that I really was a little girl.

To me, I’d be itching to get out of those itchy tights and constrictive buttoned dresses as quickly as my scratched up rash-y legs could carry me.

Those prickly tights, coupled with starchy-collared dresses that would chafe at my neck, rendered me ultimately unable to move comfortably.

So perhaps it’s not deja vu after all.

Unlike my 5-year-old and his declaration of independence, I had justified reasons to dislike being suited up so at that age. At least each option I give him is a comfortable one.

Countless times I’ve laid out his clothes; a nice, coordinating ensemble.

But when he comes out of his room fully dressed in an entirely different get-up, he only reasons that, “I didn’t like that shirt. So I’m wearing this one.”

“What didn’t you like about it?”

“Just that I didn’t like it.”

I can tell you precisely what I didn’t like about scratchy tights. They restricted me from running freely and my knobby legs from properly circulating blood flow.

So forgive me if I didn’t feel “Just that I didn’t like it” sufficed.

But alas, perhaps my Sunday-best childhood outfits weren’t so bad.

Maybe I was stubbornly not giving pinafore frou-frou dresses a fair chance only because they weren’t my first-choice duds, and so I therefore had to protest a mini-anthem of rebellion in all my kindergarten-age glory.

I now reflect fondly on old Polaroids stamped between glossy scrapbook sheets, the glue fading and yellowed. My frilly outfits and mary janes were really not so bad after all, their telltale 1980s patterns truly evident of that time and place. 

And most days I was given creative license anyway.

Regardless of whether I donned Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls with sparkling jelly sandals, or dressier, matching fare per my parents’ direction, the memories made wearing these threads were what counted most.

And as our kiddos learn to better match their clothing and choose what’s weather appropriate, they’ll gain more creative license too.

Until then, the tug-of-war compromises will ensue, and I’ll encourage our kiddos to think outside the dresser drawer box to see what other options they have aside from their usuals.

And in the meantime, I’ll continue to discreetly weed out my son’s clothes that just don’t fit correctly anymore.

There’s just no rest for the wear and tear.

— Michelle Cote is the creative director of the Journal Tribune and a nationally-syndicated columnist. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog. She can be contacted at mcote@journaltribune.com.