She’s Nine. I Think.

Yesterday evening I took Gwyneth shopping for jeans for her new “school uniform.” (jeans, khakis, navy pants/skirt/skort/capris and a polo – which Gwyn pronounced “Lame-o”) and I’m in the dressing room with what appears to be a hormonal teenager.

“I’m NOT a size 12. I’m a 10. A TEN. I won’t wear those. I won’t try them on.” She tries them on. “They make my behind look flappy.”

Flappy? Child. That is not possible. Your behind is adorable. Your skinny long legs – adorable. These just fit your little girl belly better.

“No. I’m a 10.” She throws off 12s and we’re back in the 10s.

Sit on the floor. How do those 10s feel on your tummy?

“Fine. Just fine.”

Can you tuck a polo into them?

“Let me see those other jeans.” She tries the 12s again. She sits. “Okay. I like the 12 slims.”

This is the condensed version. I hate shopping.

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