She yawns, "Okay what size do they take?"

"I'm not sure," I say. What I'm thinking is, "Couldn't she measure them?" Isn't that how these things are done?"

She stands there waiting.

"Why don't we try a medium shirt and maybe a 29 or 30 pants?" I suggest.

"For both of them?" she asks.

She's serious.

I picture one twin wearing size 42 and learning to walk down a hall while trying to keep his pants on (how do they do that?), and the other squeezing into something on the tight side. Just so they can sport their individuality.

The order form states that each student will need five shirts and five pants. I think the boys need to learn to do laundry every other day.

"I'll take four medium shirts and four size 29 pants," I tell our personal consultant after they've tried the clothes on.

"For which one?"

Maybe it's dry humour.

"You know you could have done this online?" she continues.

I'll know next time.

Tess doesn't have the ease of a uniform. Still, I'm dreaming of a co-ordinated wardrobe. Preferably- her preference- pink. Everything interchangeable. Minimalism will keep the morning hissy fits about not knowing what to wear at bay.

Or so I dream. In the first store she tries on an armload of items. One fits.

In the next every stick-like model is wearing at least six visible items of clothing. Why wear a pair of jeans and a shirt when you can layer two undershirts, a wide-necked over-shirt, an open sweater, a pair of tights and possibly a skirt?

I envision morning confusion. I'm thinking, "What time would this child- who hates mornings and is dreading the very idea of having to lift her head off the pillow before 10 a.m.- have to get up in order to decide which items to put with which?" I'm thinking, "How much laundry does wearing four shirts a day create?"

Tess spots a pink sweater with satin-lined hoody. An eager, commissioned staff person sidles up to us.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asks.

"Sure, we have this shirt and I'd like a wardrobe created around it. "Oh." She goes dumb. Isn't this what she wants? Aren't we the dream customers? I want to be pointed in the direction of some complete outfits. I want to be told what works with what.

What a nine-year-old girl, trying to make a reasonable first impression at a new school, should be wearing to school this year.

But whatever this store person's role here is, it's not fashion advisor. "If you'd like a less pink sweater, there's one over hereâ?¦"

"Less pink really isn't what we're after."

"Yes a lot of girls are wearing pink this year." She seems mystified- despite the wall of pink clothes in front of us. Maybe her commission is higher on neutral tones.

We head to one more store- totally against Tess' wishes. She's done with shopping. And couldn't care less about what she may or may not look like in a near future she's not ready to face quite yet.

"Can't we just go home?"

Nope. Not until I find clothes that she can play in. Run in. Climb trees in. And look good. And come in pink.

Next week shoes.

Oh joy.