Husbands be putting babies into too-tiny t-shirts.

That’s the consensus after a recent girls’ night; that our menfolk don’t seem to notice squeezing our children into clothing they have obviously outgrown.

Me: Some mornings, Sam walks down the stairs in an outfit that my husband has dressed him in and it looks like he’s dressed for “Night at the Roxbury Day” dress-up day at camp.

Friend 1: I could see Charlie’s entire belly button on Monday after Chris dressed him.

Friend 2: Happens all the time. And then my husband blames me for not curating the shirt drawer. He’ll ask me why the shirt is in the drawer if he can no longer wear it?

Although I do champion the idea of Thinking Like a Dad, I have to draw the line at clothes that don’t fit. Non-matching? A-okay. Slightly dirty? Fine. But too small? For some reason, pants that hit above the ankle or shirts that are obviously two-sizes too small, makes me feel like Sam looks uncared for. He could be in 4th generation hand-me-downs and have yogurt all over the neckline and I would feel 100% great about sending him into school. But not in clothing that doesn’t fit.

But then, reader, It Happened To Me: I Dressed my Kid in Clothing That Didn’t Fit. Yes, this morning, I attempted to shove Kit into a dress that obviously didn’t fit her anymore.  I just kept trying and trying to snap those damn little crotch buttons. She was angry, I was breathless but I honestly felt that if I could just snap them, it would somehow magically fit.

But I looked down and she resembled this:

So I had to take a deep breath, change her out, and then— and this is the most important part! — put the too-small dress in the giveaway pile (note: the giveaway pile it’s not really a pile; it’s more like a crack between the dresser and the wall where I shove outgrown clothing into until I have time and the inclination to sort. Which is never.)

One outgrown outfit down, hundreds more to go.