At least I was cute--even if the clothes weren't

It's best for me start with my plaid dress. But really, it's the entire outfit since the dress came with the hat. What you can't see in the photo is that the hat had a matching plaid ribbon. And yes, the hat was made of a plastic similar to cheap Easter basket fabric. (But I'm sure I totally dug that plaid bag.)

I also remember the sandal straps cutting in to my skin, leaving blisters like crazy. This shot was from a market in Mexico City, where I prided myself on my Spanish skills and negotiated for a turquoise sombrero I insisted on wearing on the flight home. Yikes.

I don't know what I was doing in this photo. Napping perhaps?
Apparently, when I was given this dress for my second birthday, I threw the box across the room and screamed "I hate this!"
Now, I think this dress is awesome. And I love how my mom matched the tights to the dots on the dress. In my college grunge days, I would have grabbed the big girl size of this in a second, worn it with some oxblood docs, and prided myself on how good it looked with my gas station attendant jacket.

It's hard to see, but I hated, and still hate, everything about this outfit. The short-sleeved sweater, always a mistake in my eyes. The jeans. But most of all, the brown orthopedic shoes. My grandmother was very small--perhaps my parents borrowed those shoes from her?
I look humiliated, and felt it.

I look thrilled with this outfit. (See--not every outfit I include will be about our parents making us wear them and hating it. Some are ones we were made to wear--and LOVED it.)
What cowgirl wouldn't have been happy with this spiffy garb?

Finally, it's always good to remember where you came from. (Disdain for the clothing of your past transcends any generational divides!) My mom has her very own most-hated outfit.
I love several things about this photo of my mother. The thing I love most is that the photo looks as if it were ripped violently from the class photo it was a part of. She has no idea why the photo looks like this, or why it was torn apart.

But she remembers everything about THE BLUE SUIT. Apparently, my grandmother, in her infinite and cruel wisdom, believed that everything should be bought with plenty of "room to grow." Thus, a size 14 suit for a woman who even now, at 63, is a size 4.
It's a good thing it doesn't look matronly, right?

Suffice to say, I think this suit is one of the reasons my own baby book has fewer hated outfits than others may. My own mother knew the pain of the bad fashion choice.
Thanks Mom.