I have this thing about dressing my kids well. I'm pretty sure it's a genetic trait that I inherited from my mother. I always looked like I was ready to be entered into a baby beauty pageant. I had a whole jar full of hair bows to match every outfit, and my mother used mass quantities of mousse to make sure a stray hair never escaped my perfectly symmetrical pigtails.
When we go out, I make sure they are wearing something absolutely adorable, their hair is combed neatly, and that their socks match. (Please note that I say "when we go out". We stay at home four days out of the week, and on those four days, you'd have a hard time telling that my kids aren't homeless.) But when we're out, I dress them very nicely, in hopes that anyone who feels drawn to make immediate judgment will assume that my children are well cared for and loved. Thus, I feel that my parenting is a direct reflection of the way my kids look. Which is probably ridiculous.
Today was library day. And my precious youngest daughter looked like a charming little princess in her flouncy plaid skirt, coordinating shoes and hair bows, and funky little leg warmers. And she proved that it doesn't really matter how a child is dressed at all when she proudly announced in a very non-library voice, "Hey Mom! Me farted. Heh-heh."