The purple shirt incident goes like this:

We are out shopping for David’s birthday and we go into a store for new business shirts.

It is quite a fancy shop, one we would not usually enter but the shirts are on sale and I know Dave could use them.

I am with Ivy and Noah, Lily and my Mum.

The store is large and filled with all manner of smart, male attire.

I don’t know what I am looking for, what I need and our small army of shoppers fan out to sift through the layers and the piles.

Straight away Ivy notices the exact same purple tie that her paed  wears and brings it to me.

The good doctor  wears very…

soft colours  -

lavender being one of his favourites, pink being another.

“Look,” she says, “It’s just the same as [the paed's], Daddy needs this tie.”

“No”, I say,

“Daddy doesn’t need [the paed's] tie, Daddy doesn’t wear the same colours as your doctor, Daddy doesn’t like purple for work.”

After she begs me for a few minutes and sees that I am not going to budge she tells Noah to take the tie and tell me that he wants the tie for him.

Much  internal laughing ensues,

but I manage to tell him No

and to put it back.
While I make sure the purple tie is returned,  Ivy has discovered a rack of shirts and she is pulling all of the purple ones out one by one and starts bringing them to me.

“Daddy, needs this one,” she states, holding up a light purple business shirt, with pale pink stripes.

“Daddy would look good in this one,” she offers, handing me a purple on purple number.

I take them from her and explain to her again that her father  won’t wear the same colours as [the paed] and ask her  to put them back.

My mother is smiling as she watches the scene.

I don’t think she quite believed me about Ivy’s doctor crush until this day.

Ivy wanders away and I think that is the last of it.
I pick two navy shirts (very Dave) and take them over to where the merry band of shoppers are standing.

As I approach, I notice that Ivy has taken every single pink and purple shirt she can find and has lined them up on the rack together. (Don’t forget she is a sorter and a sifter – it ‘s her thing.)

I tell her it’s time to go and move towards the cashier, expecting that she will follow.

Instead she scoops every last purple and pink shirt up into her arms (about 20 or so, a huge pile for a little girl) and holds them to her nose and breathes them in.

SNIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFF!

I look at her and shake my head and tell her that they may be purple shirts,  but they do not belong to the paediatrician and they don’t smell like him.

She bursts into tears and tells me that;

“You are wrong, Mummy, they do smell just like [the paed]!”

and with that stomps over to where my mother is waiting and glares daggers towards me me until I have finished paying for the chosen (blue) shirts.

We exit the store and indeed the shopping centre

for denial of the purple shirts has been all too much for the little girl and she is (not so) quietly sobbing, concerned shoppers shooting weary glances our way.

At home,I think nothing more of the encounter,

until bed time,

when I see she is whispering to Noah and suddenly he pipes up and says;

“You know, Mummy, I really need [the paed's] tie for my birthday. It’s what I want.”

Ivy smiles towards her hero and I chuckle to myself.

I tuck them into bed, so the boy can dream of ties

and the girl, her doctor.