Wardrobe Collection Quotes

The elevator doors opened, and I squeezed myself out before pulling out the Wardrober. It was heavy. “What do you have in there?” I said. “Your whole house?” “Almost,” Simone laughed. “My favorite books.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse —The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can’t escape, Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Wouldn't it be dreadful if some day, in our own world, at home, men started going wild inside, like the animals here, and still looked like men, so that you'd never know which were which?

What defines a romance? All scholars seem to converge on a single point: it is a story that must have a happy ending. And why is that? I say, it is because a romance is a belief in the impossible: that anything ends happily. For the only true end is death - and in this way, is romance not a rebuke of mortality? When love is here, I am not. When love is not, I am gone. Perhaps a romance is a story with no end at all; where the end is but a wardrobe with a false back, leading to stranger and more merciful words. From an epistemological theory of romance by Dr. Edmund Huber, collected in the Llyrian Journal of Literary Criticism, 199 AD

Silenus or Nymphs and

I

You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honour enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content.

So long, Jill. Sorry I've been a funk and so ratty. I hope you get safe home," and Jill said, "So long, Eustace. And I'm sorry I've been such a pig." And this was the first time they had ever used Christian names, because one didn't do it at school.

Natalya sighed and considered what she’d wear. She closed her own door and pondered her wardrobe. She popped open her gravtrunk and pulled down a tab in the top, revealing a collection of weapons. “Accessories,” she said. “This calls for the proper accessories.

Hendry sighed and changed the subject. “I had a dream today—” “Typically, one has them at night—” “—while napping in the graveyard.” Despite his charm and freckled nose, Hendry was still a Lowe. He had a little villain in him. The Lowe family graveyard was his favorite place, full of vague, unnerving epitaphs for those who’d died young—even excluding the tournament, their family had a surprisingly large amount of tragedy in its history. “In the dream, you really were a monster.” Alistair snorted and mashed the games buttons. “What did I look like?” “Oh, you looked the same.” “Then what made me a monster?” “You were collecting the spellrings of dead children and hiding them in your wardrobe, cackling about souls being trapped inside them.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said. “I’d do something like that now.

A few months ago they were all for washing up the plates and knives before dinner: they said it saved time afterwards. I've caught them planting boiled potatoes to save cooking them when they were dug up. One day the cat got into the dairy and twenty of them were at work moving all the milk out; no one thought of moving the cat.

The wardrobe threw open her doors. Inside were a few interesting things- one of the largest, clearest mirrors Belle had ever seen, some moths, and an extremely pretty collection of gowns that would have made the blond triplets, Paulette, Claudette, and Laurette, swoon. Belle examined the dresses skeptically. Of course, if things went the way they did in fairy tales, they would all fit her perfectly. The question was, was this a "Bluebeard's Wives" situation? Or something else?

We stood at the gate, considering the marvel of the World where people, such is the deception of memory, did as they pleased, owned furniture, dressing tables with doilies on them and wardrobes with mirrors; and doors they could open and shut and open as many times as they chose; and no name tapes sewn inside the neck of their clothes; and handbags to carry, with nail files and make-up; and no one to watch while they were eating and to collect and count the knives afterwards and say in a frightening voice, ‘Rise, Ladies.

running to and fro with trays of refreshments. Odo, who knew that his mother lived in the Duke's palace, had vaguely imagined that his father's death must have plunged its huge precincts into silence and mourning; but as he followed the abate up successive flights of stairs and down long corridors full of shadow he heard a sound of dance music below and caught the flash of girandoles through the antechamber doors. The thought that his father's death had made no difference to any one in the palace was to the child so much more astonishing than any of the other impressions crowding his brain, that these were scarcely felt, and he passed as in a dream through rooms where servants were quarrelling over cards and waiting-women rummaged in wardrobes full of perfumed finery, to a bedchamber in which a lady dressed in weeds sat disconsolately at supper. "Mamma! Mamma!" he cried, springing

I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life--the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago. Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before. “What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded. Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise. “You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.” “I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.” I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was. I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine--so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy. “Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.” “I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said. I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together. “Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift. Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packing for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore. “Are you crying?” he asked. “No,” I said, my lip quivering. “Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to. “I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.” We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears--a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia--would disappear completely.

Pantry Staples Our pantry is organized to stock a limited and set amount of jars, which contain either a permanent staple or rotational staple. Permanent staples will vary from family to family. Ours include: • Flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, cornstarch, baking powder, yeast, oatmeal, coffee, dry corn, powdered sugar • Jam, butter, peanut butter, honey, mustard, canned tomatoes, pickles, olives, capers • Olive oil, vegetable oil, apple cider vinegar, wine vinegar, tamari, vanilla extract • A selection of spices and herbs Rotational staples represent groups of foods that we used to buy in many different forms. In the past, our legume collection consisted of chickpeas, lentils, peas, red beans, fava beans, pinto beans, etc. Even though stocking many types of food appears to stimulate variety, the contrary is often the case. Similar to wardrobe items, pantry favorites get picked first while nonfavorites get pushed back and forgotten, take up space, and ultimately go bad (i.e., become rancid or bug infested). Today, instead of storing many versions of a staple, we have dedicated one specific jar and adopted a system of rotation. For example, our rotating jar of grain might be filled with rice one week, couscous another. Our rotating collection includes: • Grain • Pasta • Legume • Cereal • Cookie • Nut • Sweet snack • Savory snack • Tea This system has proved not only to maintain variety in our diet and free up storage space; it has also been efficient at keeping foods from going bad.

For let us make no mistake. All that we fear from all the kinds of adversity, severally, is collected together in the life of a soldier on active service. Like sickness, it threatens pain and death. Like poverty, it threatens ill lodging, cold, heat, thirst, and hunger. Like slavery, it threatens toil, humiliation, injustice, and arbitrary rule. Like exile, it separates you from all you love.

As Lewis wrote, many years after his wartime service: For let us make no mistake. All that we fear from all the kinds of adversity, severally, is collected together in the life of a soldier on active service. Like sickness, it threatens pain and death. Like poverty, it threatens ill lodging, cold, heat, thirst, and hunger. Like slavery, it threatens toil, humiliation, injustice, and arbitrary rule. Like exile, it separates you from all you love.87

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

I myself have an extensive collection of leather jackets, despite the fact that the only way I can tell them apart is by looking at the label sewn into the neck. And yet I will continue to buy them because, like many other items in my wardrobe, they are a perennial classic and I have a weird mental block that every time I go shopping that means I forget what I already own the moment I cross the threshold into the store.

But here I am, having worked so hard and for so long that I’ve made myself sick. And worst of all, I’ve nearly forgotten how to rest. I’m tired, inevitably. But it’s more than that. I’m hollowed out. I’m tetchy and irritable, constantly feeling like prey, believing that everything is urgent and that I can never do enough. And my house—my beloved home—has suffered a kind of entropy in which everything has slowly collapsed and broken and worn out, with detritus collecting on every surface and corner, and I have been helpless in the face of it. Since being signed off sick, I’ve been forced to lean back on the sofa and stare at the wreckage for hours at a time, wondering how the hell it got so bad. There’s not a single soothing place left in the house, where you can rest a while without being reminded that something needs to be mended or cleaned. The windows are clouded with the dusty veil of a hundred rainstorms. The varnish is wearing from the floorboards. The walls are dotted with nails that are missing their pictures or holes that should be filled and painted over. Even the television hangs at a drunken angle. When I stand on a chair and empty the top shelf in the wardrobe, I find that I have meant to replace the bedroom curtains at least three times in the last few years, and every bundle of fabric I’ve bought has ended up folded neatly and stowed away, entirely forgotten. That I’m noticing these things only now that I’m physically unable to remedy them feels like the kind of exquisite torture devised by vengeful Greek gods. But here it is: my winter. It’s an open invitation to transition into a more sustainable life and to wrest back control over the chaos I’ve created. It’s a moment when I have to step into solitude and contemplation. It’s also a moment when I have to walk away from old alliances, to let the strings of some friendships fall loose, if only for a while. It’s a path I’ve walked over and over again in my life. I have learned the skill set of wintering the hard way.

Instead, the shelves lining the walls are now filled with Xavier’s extensive collection of sourdough starters. Much of the time, the jars are out in the world with him—hanging out in the living room, getting some sun out in the yard, traveling back and forth between Harlan and Sherwood. After a while, the young starters mature and get dehydrated so they can be stored for longer. But when they aren’t having recreation time with Xavier, in the kitchen being used for recipes, or stashed in powder form, they hang out here. And apparently, now they have a new wardrobe.

When we reached his door, he went inside, leaving it open for me to follow. I stepped across the threshold and closed out the hall, then surveyed what lay before me: a lavish main room much like mine in Hytanica, with a fireplace; a rich, comfortable sofa upon which Narian settled; several armchairs; a carved wooden table scattered with papers; and two bookshelves stocked with volumes. Heavy drapes covered one wall, and when I crossed the thick rug that blanketed the floor to push the fabric aside, I learned the reason--they hid a set of large windows. I turned around and saw that an expansive mural covered the wall above and to the sides of the door. It combined horses, a sunrise and sunset, stars in a deep blue sky, noblewomen and men, creatures of myth and a Cokyrian flag into a single stunning piece of artwork. Intricate tapestries were common in Hytanica, but I had never seen anything approaching the beauty of this painting before. Narian was content to let me explore, so I approached the table, skimming the papers atop it, which ranged from correspondence and scrawled notes to maps and battle strategies. Spying his bedroom beyond, which was open to the main room but secluded by a wall, I glanced at him for approval, and went inside upon his nod. His bed was built into a corner, on a raised platform, permitting access from only one side by what appeared to be a climbing net. Practical for a military man--and fun for a child. He followed me, stopping in the archway to watch me explore his private space. “May I?” I asked, crossing to his wardrobe, for I was curious about the style of his attire here in Cokyri, and he again motioned me ahead. I glanced between Narian and the clothing inside the wardrobe several times, trying to understand the disparity. The Narian I knew dressed practically, ever a soldier, thinking of comfort and of blending into his surroundings. Yet he possessed a collection of rich clothing, the fabrics similar to what I would have expected to find in Steldor’s or my father’s wardrobe, not in his. Mounted on the inside of one of the doors were dress swords, and on the other, shelves that held jewels far more valuable than anything we had in Hytanica. “Narian, this is…” I started, then shook my head in wonder. “Ridiculous, I know.” He crossed to his bed and leaned against the netting. “No!” I exclaimed. “It’s unbelievably beautiful.” I pointed to an exquisite ruby ring and flashed him a smile. “This could have been my betrothal ring.

on an outdoor set, he watched a donkey braying at all the wrong moments, angering the sound technicians, who could not get the animal to perform on cue. (Walter loved to tell this story, and of course it got better every time he told it.) “I can bray,” said Brennan, buttonholing the director. So he brayed, and both the director and the donkey were delighted. “How much?” Walter asked the director. “Ten bucks,” came the reply. “Not enough,” the actor responded. But that was the pay scale, the director said. “Then I don’t bray,” Walter rejoined. “Tell you what,” the desperate director offered, “you bray for the ten-spot, and tomorrow come around and I’ll give you a bit part. You can collect twenty-five on that.” So it was that Walter Brennan brayed himself into motion pictures. Or as he liked to put it, “I got into pictures by making a jackass of myself.” True story? True enough, I suspect, because it was often said of Walter that he knew the value of a dollar and knew how to make himself useful. He also saved money by having his one pair of pants pressed every day by a friendly wardrobe man. Ruth liked to reminisce about washing Walter’s one shirt, putting it out on the line to dry, and then getting up at 4:00 am to iron it.

My mother had been in the Soviet whirlpool for eleven years by this point. Enough time, I imagine, to unlearn the bourgeois habits of her native Brooklyn, to accustom herself to the farting and shouting of her neighbours, to doing her washing by hand in the collective tub, to keeping her dry food locked up in her wardrobe

He complained that Bostonians had paid a collective $50,000 for tickets to see the European ballerina Fanny Elssler, known “for the scantiness of her wardrobe.” This was the same amount of money, total, paid to Massachusetts teachers each year. What did society value more—salacious dancing or schools?

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Put on Love And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. COLOSSIANS 3:14 NIV How many mornings have we stood in our closets, looking hopelessly at its overstuffed contents and thinking we have nothing to wear? What we’re really thinking is that we have nothing to wear that makes us feel cute or pretty or sporty or professional—or whatever look we’re going for that day. We want to look attractive. We want others to be drawn to us. And sometimes, no matter how many blouses we have to choose from, nothing feels right. But there is one accessory we all have available to us that always fits. It always looks right, is always appropriate, and always makes us more attractive to others. When we wear it, we are beautiful, no matter how faded or dated our wardrobes may be. When we wear it, we become more popular, more sought after, more admired. What is that accessory, you ask, and where can you buy it? It’s love, and you can’t buy it anywhere. But it’s free, and it’s always available through the Holy Spirit. When we call on Him to help us love others, He cloaks us in a beautiful covering that draws people to us and makes us perfectly lovely in every way. Dear Father, as I get dressed each day, help me to remember the most important accessory I can wear is Your love. Amen.

Her friends had scheduled Cecily an appointment with Madam Chantal, London’s most expensive dressmaker, and quickly endeavored to commission Cecily an entirely new wardrobe. She had since spent countless hours in the French woman’s boutique being measured, pinned, dressed, and fussed over. She’d even shared some of her own design ideas with the modiste, and together she and Madam Chantal were integrating them into her new apparel. In between these lengthy appointments, the young ladies had patronized numerous other shops to purchase all manner of accessories. It was in one particularly pricy jewelry store where Cecily had come across Flavion making the purchase for Miss Cunnington.

Am I that hard to understand? Or is it just that they don’t want to understand me, people like Glynne Barrett, who curate their wardrobes and fuss over websites and run from anything raw and unplanned, as though my type of pain were catching?

Make your choice, adventurous Stranger; Strike the bell and bide the danger, Or wonder, till it drives you mad, What would have followed if you had.

An insect hovers nearby. She can't remember what it's called: smaller than a dragonfly, with delicate mother-of-pearl wings. It skims the surface of the beck. She stays like that for a long time, listening to the birds, the water, the insects. She shuts her eyes, opening them again when she feels something brush her hand. The dragonfly-like creature with the iridescent wings. The word swims up from the depths of her brain: a damselfly. Tears well in her eyes, surprising her. She was fascinated by insects as a child. She remembers begging her mother to spare the moths that fluttered out from wardrobes, the gauzy spider's webs that clung to the ceiling. She'd collected vividly illustrated books about them. About birds, too. She would hide under the covers reading, in the small, silent hours of the morning while her parents slept in the next room. It hurts now, to think of that little girl, her innocent wonder: flashlight in hand, turning the glossy pages and marveling at the wild and wonderful creatures. Butterflies with eyes on their wings, parrots in candy-colored plumage.

dating question -What do you want from this world? -To have a wardrobe. In his first meeting with Katrina, she asked him a dating question, and his answer was unconventional, he wished he could buy a wardrobe, in which he put his belongings, a metaphor for the instability in his life, so how does he do this, while he is without a homeland, without a home, moving from place to another, carrying a bag containing a few of his personal belongings. About to cheat on Khadija, the curiosity in the intelligence man’s mind overpowered him, the desire for knowledge, exploration, information, and a thirst for more details, the smallest details. Plan the process with the mentality of a computer programmer, “I will leave them a loophole in the system, they will hack me through it, and to do this they have to open their doors to send their code, and at this very moment, I am sending my code in the opposite direction. The most vulnerable account devices to hack are the hackers themselves. They enter the systems through special ports, which are opened to them by the so-called Trojan horse, a type of virus, with which they target the victim, open loopholes for them, infiltrate through them, and in both cases, they, in turn, have to open ports on their devices to complete the connection, from which they can be hacked backward. Katrina is a Trojan horse, he will not close the ports in front of her, she must succeed in penetrating him, and she will be his bridge connecting them, he will sneak through her, to the most secret and terrifying place in the world, a journey that leads him to the island of Malta, to enter the inevitable den. This is how the minds of investigators and intelligence men work, they must open the outlets of their minds to the fullest, to collect information, receive it, and deal with it, and that is why their minds are the most vulnerable to penetration, manipulation, and passing misleading information to them. It is almost impossible to convince a simple man, that there is life outside the planet, the outlets of his mind are closed, he is not interested in knowledge, nor is he collecting information, and the task of entering him is difficult, they call him the mind of the crocodile, a mind that is solid, closed, does not affect anything and is not affected by anything, He has his own convictions, he never changes them. While scientists, curious, intellectuals, investigators, and intelligence men, the ports of their minds are always open. And just as hackers can penetrate websites by injecting their URL addresses with programming phrases, they can implant their code into the website’s database, and pull information from it. The minds of such people can also be injected, with special codes, some of them have their minds ready for injection, and one or two injections are sufficient to prepare for the next stage, and for some, dozens of injections are not enough, and some of them injected their minds themselves, by meditation, thinking, and focusing on details, as Ruslan did. Khadija did not need more than three injections, but he trusted the love that brought them together, there is no need, she knew a lot about him in advance, and she will trust him and believe him. Her mind would not be able to get her away, or so he wished, the woman’s madness had not been given its due. What he is about to do now, and the revenge videos that she is going to receive will remain in her head forever, and will be her brain’s weapon to escape, when he tries to get her out of the box. From an early age, he did not enjoy safety and stability, he lived in the midst of hurricanes of chaos, and the heart of randomness. He became the son of shadows and their master. He deserved the nickname he called himself “Son of Chaos.

Permission to take this dumpster fire of a wardrobe, which represents your dumpster fire of a love life, to an actual dumpster and set it on fire.” “Permission not granted. These are very work appropriate. Seven-year-olds like and respect me when I wear these clothes.” “Right, well, my grown man penis literally started shrivelling as soon as I saw these cardigans.” “It’s taken me years to assemble this collection of fun cardigans.” “That is the saddest sentence I have ever heard, and there is no such thing as a fun cardigan.

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Toddler Clothes Trends for 2021 - Motheringo If you're shopping for your little girl, you'll be much more inclined towards the endearing collection of pinks and purples, not to forget the complimenting accessories, from the cutest booties to that charming headband. Graphics of Rainbows, unicorns, butterflies, and princesses are the current favorites of the little girls who're now embracing their fashion sense. For boys, the trends for cars, dinosaurs, and superheroes still wins, with wardrobes largely dominated with all the shades of blues, greens, and reds. Carefully choosing our fashion line for our favorite clients, our clothes are creatively curated to offer a perfect combination of convenience, maximizing comfort, and keeping your style at the top of the line.

BABY FASHION TRENDS 2021 AND BEYOND Fashion for babies is fun - dressing up the babies in the tiniest adorable attires. Relished with excitement, all mommies want to keep their little ones on top of the fashion trends. Even before they're born, their wardrobe is well stocked, with piles of new onesies, dungarees, dresses for little girls, and a range of shorts for boys. Well, before you know, these adorable munchkins grow up within a blink of an eye, as you're stunned how quickly they grew out of their wardrobe. Whether you're soon to become a new mommy or already have your little one playing around, you've come to the right place to find all sorts of options to endearingly dress up the tiny souls. With the fascinating boom in baby apparel in the last few decades, new and adorable trends are revealed each year. Passionate as ever, you would want to try out the styles on your baby. Though your little one might not know what they're wearing, but just a few years - actually months – later, the way you dress them will reflect in the fashion sense and personality they develop! While you would want the trendiest closet for your newborn and toddlers, keep in mind that children feel the most comfortable when their clothes do not pose an obstacle in their flexibility and freedom. Dressed up in stylish yet practical clothes would give your little one freedom of self-expression as they indulge in their innocence. Therefore, when dressing up your kids, keeping a tonal mixture of style and comfort is vital. At Motheringo, we understand your mommy concerns to buy chic yet affordable clothing for your little ones. Stocked with a range of collections offering greater value of money, our clothes are aligned with your budget while ensuring we provide premium quality outfits made with the finest fabrics for your young fashionista.

Welcome to TryKid: Luxury Children’s Fashion Store Online Welcome to TryKid, the ultimate destination where style meets childhood dreams! We bring you a luxury children's fashion experience designed to make every child feel special while ensuring top-quality and trendsetting styles. Let us take you through the heartfelt journey of TryKid, your go-to online store for premium children’s fashion. The Vision Behind TryKid The idea of TryKid was born from a simple yet profound mission: to redefine children's fashion by offering luxurious, high-quality clothing and accessories tailored to young trendsetters. We envisioned a platform where parents could find sophisticated yet playful designs that reflect their child's unique personality, ensuring a seamless blend of comfort and elegance. Why Choose TryKid? At TryKid, we believe every child deserves to shine in outfits that celebrate their individuality. Here’s what sets us apart: 1. Premium Quality Fabrics We handpick fabrics that are soft, durable, and safe for sensitive skin, ensuring your child’s comfort is never compromised. 2. Exquisite Designs Our collections feature timeless designs with a modern twist, combining luxury with functionality. From everyday wear to special occasions, TryKid offers something for every moment. 3. Diverse Collections From chic dresses to dapper suits, cozy knitwear to statement accessories, TryKid covers all your child’s wardrobe needs with flair. 4. Sustainability First We prioritize eco-friendly practices by offering sustainable fabrics and packaging, ensuring a better tomorrow for your little ones. 5. Personalized Shopping Experience Our user-friendly online store allows parents to explore collections effortlessly, offering tailored recommendations based on your preferences. The TryKid Journey TryKid started as a small dream fueled by a passion for fashion and the love for creating joyful childhood memories. Over the years, we’ve evolved into a trusted name in luxury children’s fashion, admired for our commitment to quality and customer satisfaction. Each collection at TryKid tells a story, inspired by children’s boundless imagination and vibrant personalities. Whether it’s a whimsical fairy tale or a chic urban vibe, our designs bring those stories to life, helping kids express themselves with confidence and charm. Shop with Ease at TryKid Shopping for your child’s wardrobe has never been more exciting! Our intuitive website offers: Detailed Product Descriptions: Know every feature, from fabric composition to care instructions. Size Guides: Find the perfect fit with our accurate and comprehensive size charts. Secure Payment Options: Enjoy peace of mind with our encrypted payment methods. Fast Shipping and Easy Returns: We ensure a hassle-free experience from checkout to delivery. Conclusion At TryKid, we aim to be more than just a luxury children’s fashion store. We aspire to be a part of your child’s beautiful journey, dressing them in outfits that make every moment memorable. Discover the magic of premium fashion for your little ones and let them shine in the elegance they deserve. Explore our collections today and experience why TryKid is a trusted name in luxury children’s fashion. Welcome to the world of TryKid, where dreams come to life in every stitch and style!