Decorated piggies is a slippery slope

In all the fantasies I had of my future mother-daughter relationship, I never pictured having matching anything. The idea of dressing like my child in carefully coordinated outfits and accessories was more of a nightmare, leftover emotional damage from such practices in my childhood scarred me, leaving me convinced that no child ever would want such a thing. Fast forward to my more sobering reality and I'm facing that humiliation because my beautiful girl is grooming me for that very future.
    Nora is more girlie than I was as a kid. She enjoys skirts and dress up. She thrills at jewelry and nail polish. After an initial resistance to the unknown, she’s embraced having her hair done every morning, sitting still for increasingly elaborate hair styles that she checks out from every angle once I’m done.  “I look fabulous, Mama.”
    Her need for the cute has bled into opinions about her clothes when we get dressed in the morning. Not even two and a half and I can’t walk into the closet and pull any old thing off the hangers. Nora stands at my hip, finger thoughtfully tapping her chin, bed head swaying wildly around her tilted head, as she peruses her entire collection of clean clothes. “I think....I feel I should wear this today,” she says, tiny hand reaching up and tugging tops and bottoms down.
    And don’t even get me started on shoes. I’m torn between pride and irritation every time it takes her several minutes to choose the pair of shoes she wants to wear before we take our walks. The screaming that girl can do when the options available to her don’t go with her outfit is admirable. She doesn’t tantrum all that often, but clothes are definitely involved. I dread the day when she figures out that we won’t be able to financially support her need for trendy clothes and shoes. I foresee slamming doors and tears.
    Somehow I’ve found myself roped into weekly “pedicure” parties, where we huddle in the bathroom chatting while I hastily paint our toes in toddler picked colors. At first, Nora would choose her color, and I’d pick my own. Slowly that process changed and Nora also began to dictate my nail color. It was a good system and we had fun with it.
    Yesterday marked the changing in the tides, the beginning of the end; Nora demanded we match.
    “Blue for Nora. And blue for Mama.”
    “Don’t you want your own color?”
    “Yes. Blue.”
    “But if we have the same color - “
    “We’ll be beautiful together.”
    When she puts it that way, how can I tell her no? I painted both of our nails the same blue color, blowing them dry and trying not to fuss when she wiggled her toes, smearing the  polish across her skin. She plopped her bottom down next to me while I worked on my toes, anxiously puffing air on them, “To help, Mama.” When we were done, Nora patted my knee, head on my shoulder, her denim blue eyes staring at our matching toes for a long time before hugging me tight. “Thank you, Mama. We’re beautiful.” And then she ran off, shouting for me to play hide and seek with her and I followed, filing the sweet moment away for later.
    Adam got home for dinner and Nora bounded down the stairs, like always, calling for him as she made her way to the front door. All excitement and already pushing me away for something better, but, to my surprise, the first thing she did was stick her chubby foot in his face. “Look! Toe polish!” She was grinning, wriggling her toes at him. “Like Mama. Beautiful.”
    “We match,” I added, coming around to where they were kneeling, flashing my decorated piggies at him.
    Adam looked at Nora, using his enthusiastic voice that he saves for kids, he exclaimed, “You do!”
    Nodding, Nora jumped up and started bouncing in a circle. “It’s AWESOME!”
    So, yeah. Matching. It’s a thing we do, now.