A few weeks ago, Shanel’s mom was in town for the weekend. Back in our college days, Shanel, our roommates, and I would head down to her parent’s place in search of fresh cookies, a healthy dose of mothering and maybe some free laundry.

We’d haul baskets of dirty clothes down into the basement and let them twirl and tumble as we rolled out cookies and answered Candy’s unlimited supply of questions. With the rest of our mothers out of state, Candy’s interest in our lives reminded us that every detail of our life mattered and we still had moms back home to answer to.

She was the hug that was missing from long-distance calls home. And we were the sporadic surges in their water bill.

Last summer Candy and Dave sold the house he had built when Shanel was three and headed to a place that knows no winter. So when I heard she was coming to town, I put in my request for an outing with Candy and geared up for the question marathon.

On the morning of our date, I told Ava that we were going to have brunch with Shanel and her mama. She flew around the house like a debutant at the prospect of her first soirée. Oh, she wanted to wear a twirling skirt. A pink one. A pink one with polka-dots.

When I pulled out her adorable white shirt that Shanel had given her for her birthday to match the very twirling, very pink, very polka-dotted skirt, she came down for a crash landing.

“But Mama, it’s just white. White is so boring. I can’t just wear white to the brunch!”

That is what she said. And then she flung herself on her bed.

Trying to convince her that the shiny silver stripes gave the white shirt all the shimmer it needed was about as effective as swapping a diamond for a cubic zirconium.

Rarely do I go head-to-head in the wardrobe wars. In the year since she has generated an opinion about how she is attired, we have struck a finely balanced truce called, “I decide what goes in her closet; she decides what comes out.”

Not only had I crossed the line and stepped into her precious territory, but then I pulled out the Mama ammo.

“Ava, if you want to go to the brunch with Shanel and her mama, this is what you are wearing. You can wear a necklace over the shirt, if you like.”

I walked out of her room, pleased with my efficiency and surprised by the mysterious lack of protesting behind me. Oh, I was naïve.

Victory is in the mind of the wearer. A necklace in the hands of Ava quickly transformed into ALL her necklaces. She sauntered into the living room with no less than a dozen beaded necklaces, two purple gloves, a velvet purse, and a pair of wings to balance it out. Forget brunch, she was heading to a casting call for Fancy Nancy.

If she was going to wear white, she was wearing it with every possible adornment in her reach. I buckled Nancy’s fancy cousin in the backseat of my car and chauffeured her to the brunch.

Ava and her over-accessorized attire were greeted with all the admiration that a four-year-old aspires to.

After many hugs and kisses, Ava received her first question of the brunch:

“What would you like to order?”

“Oh, French Toast, I want French Toast. No. Pancakes. Strawberry Pancakes. No. French Toast. Um, Pancakes.”

Ava, honey, you’d better tighten up your responses or the question and answer time is going to be of the extended kind.

Candy, being the surrogate mother that she is, brought her own contribution to the closet-o’-Ava.

And what do you give fanciest four-year-old this side of the picture book?

Why sparkle flip-flops, of course. And two pairs no less.

She tried on the pink ones and twirled. She tried on the purple ones and twirled. And then she put on one of each and twirled.

Between the varying flip-flop combinations and mouthfuls of French Toast, Ava was not available for further inquiry.

Eventually the weight of vanity grew too great and Ava deposited her acrylic gems on the table. Switching roles as quickly as her costume change, Ava went from waited-on to waitress.

While we were engrossed in the conversation that comes from so many good and thought-provoking questions, Ava disappeared from our table. We spotted her rounding the corner at the other end of the restaurant carrying four cups of water.

She eagerly passed out her plastic wrapped gifts, careful not to spill a drop. Candy was quite delighted with this sweet offering of water.

Of course, it wasn’t quite as much water as I consumed washing the college grit out of my jeans. But we do what we can, one cup at a time.