My little drummer girl

Miss Dub already likes to dress herself. And if you think fashion sense is genetic, it's not. It's an acquired skill, and I can only hope that these early, awkward acquisitions lead to future outfits with coordinating colors. (Or at least thoughtfully mismatched ones as is über-hip these days.)

It takes some serious self control to let my child out of the house wearing pink cowboy boots and red shorts. I try not to be embarrassed or make explanatory comments to strangers - after all, isn't fashion about discovering yourself? - but it's hard not to when she looks like I just found her on the doorstep ... of Weird Al's house.

So much of parenting is trying not to control your children - forcing them to do or behave the way you would. Like, I'm obsessed with simple, modern children's products. I daydream of toy boxes full of wooden blocks and kid gear void of plastic, bright colors, characters or noises. So far, I'm failing, mostly thanks to grandparents who are happy to give Miss Dub the brightest and loudest toys they can find.

And you know what? She loves them. She likes her big turtle-shaped toy-holder in the bathtub, even though I lay awake at night thinking of ways I could make a simple beige pouch to replace it. She likes her Winnie Pooh plastic car, complete with obnoxious songs. (And, let's be honest, Pooh is one creepy bear.)

I need to make peace with it. I need to realize that she's not going to like the same things and styles as me for the rest of her life. I marched to the beat of my drum, so why should I try to keep control of her drumsticks?

But I seriously draw the line at light-up character shoes ... but ask me again in a few years when she's throwing a fit in the middle of Target.