“No, I want to wear a shirt.”
The leggings were tight. The shirt wasn’t long. Things would be showing. I had to tell her.
Deep breath, then, totally casual, like I’m asking her if she wants a banana or yoghurt for her snack: “So, those leggings are pretty tight, babe. You may not have much privacy. Want to wear a dress instead?”
“No one notices, Mama,” she said, cool as a cucumber, waving her hand in front of her crotch. “They don’t notice this.”
“And what would you do if they did?”
“I’d say, ‘None of your business.’ And if they say that I’m being rude, I’ll say, ‘My mama said I could say that.’ And then I’ll walk away.”
Wow. Take that, world.