pants

Turns out, when I'm not waxing lyrical about the vagaries of the present moment, or just generally navigating the waters of a small family, a small business, and a medium-sized (yet thoughtful) dog—I am making pants.

Slightly irregular, somewhat whimsical, (sometimes outrageous) pants.

This is not a new phenomenon, I know. It's just that the pile is growing. Someone had to acknowledge it, so it may as well be me. Fessin' up.

It all started when the time came to brave the chain stores I love so much to shop for affordable clothes for my new little one. Surely it couldn't be too hard to find something I'd like. Oh, we can laugh about it now—Emma! Shopping in a big box store! Looking for clothes that fit her multiple ideals!—a real thigh slapper, that one. Hey, I was sleep deprived.

Now, because I worry about a whole lot of things that therefore make my life difficult, I could have increased my shopping suffering by insisting each t-shirt, hat, or pair of shorts meet a specific criteria. You know the drill—ethically made, organic, locally produced, free range, grass fed, solar powered etc. etc. But I didn't. All I asked was that they be reasonably gender neutral. You know, something any child, regardless of sex could wear happily.

I wanted for Tiny what I want for everyone, freedom to become whoever you want to be without having to squeeze every last inch of yourself into either the blue box or the pink box.

Wading through the boys clothing racks of cute-as-a-pie army camouflage pants, shirts endearingly emblazoned with apex predator animals, hunting motifs, trucks and tractors, and sport! sport! sport!, all in the wild colour palette of blue, brown, black and red, I despaired. It's not that I reject all of these things wholesale (except the army camouflage pants) but it's more that the box marked "boy" is so bloody limiting. What if he likes cooking, or reading, or swinging on the swings? What if he likes cats, or Big! Bell Towers!, or looking for worms? What if he likes throwing rocks in the river or jumping on the bed? What if his favourite colour is pink? What, I asked myself, if he is an innocent and can wait for the hyper-masculinised world of "real men" until he, and I, can no longer avoid it?

And so I make pants.

Odd ones. Whimsical ones. Outrageous ones. Classy ones.*

Soon he may want a black football shirt with a bear holding a gun on it. We'll cross that shaky, swinging bridge when we get there. But for now he can be the life-loving, eclectic little guy that he is.

With the pants to match.

* Some of these are pyjama pants. I don't intentionally dress him as a circus clown when we are gadding out and about.