The Princess of Wales and her 10-year-old daughter, Princess Charlotte, seemed to have shared not just a carriage but also outfit notes at trooping the colour last weekend, since they were both wearing neighbouring blues on the colour wheel. They do it a lot, this so-called “mini-me dressing” – via tartans and tiaras, nautical details and nifty colour accents.
She’s not the only one. Kim Kardashian does it with her kids, Beyoncé does it with Blue Ivy. In fact, it tallies with the whole vibe of nepo babies, who are now appearing in the public eye wearing outfits that are sartorial embodiments of the relationships that will privilege them for life.
It’s polarising – cute or crass? – and it isn’t just famous parents who do it. I see it at playgroups, at the school gates and – without ever meaning to, I see it staring up at me on my own daughter, too. And no wonder, in a world where adult brands promote their mini-me collections and children’s brands diversify into clothes for grownups. For a raft of newer kids’ brands, prints are unisex, arguably less infantile and certainly less “pink”, both in actual colour and general vibe (perhaps a helpful shift for the many parents pointedly putting their little boys in fuchsia), making sharing looks across generations more possible.
There’s a lot to say about the way we dress our children. Whole theses could be written on the outfits of the children in the pronatalist-inclined White House of Donald Trump, from press secretary Karoline Leavitt’s baby in a bow tie to Elon Musk’s four-year-old, known as “Lil X”, in a camel overcoat. These days, it seems plaid wins over Peppa Pig.
When I spoke to dress historian Alden O’Brien in 2023, she told me that during the early 18th century, children transitioned to adult dress fairly early, but “as attitudes towards childhood changed – letting children be children, play, have less constricting clothes – the age for moving out of children’s dresses rose”.
That 18th-century shift is often ascribed to the influence of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s book Emile, Or Treatise on Education, which advocated letting kids be free to roam in nature. According to Alasdair Peebles, expert collector of historical boy’s clothes, the impact of that 1762 book was felt in the 1770s when “boys start wearing trousers”, as well as “skeleton suits, which are a bit like modern playsuits”.
So how does the way we dress children speak to how we see childhood now? Deniz Arzuk is a critical childhood scholar who sees it as “embedded in the wider social economic structure”. The way we dress children, she says, “is tied to the way that we construct our class identities, our aspirations, and, specifically today, there is the online presence and maintaining the look”. I don’t think when my three-year-old and I end up in Crocs with matching Spider-Man charms – her work, not mine – we are maintaining some kind of cohesive look. But then the subconscious is a powerful thing. Plus, for parents who make a habit – and possibly an income – from posting on social media, matching outfits feel tailor-made to gain likes.
It feels as if there is also a potent nostalgia at play in the way some parents dress their kids – just look to the market for £60-plus vintage 90s OshKosh dungarees on Vinted for evidence. A lot of how we dress children, argues Peeble, is also to do with “using your children to embody fantasies” – in fact, he was dressed in lederhosen and kilts by his mum. If you had a relatively carefree childhood in the 1980s while decked out in dungarees and shell suits, might you be more likely to try to replicate the look on your own children as a subliminal attempt to reconstruct your childhood?
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Peeble’s precocious alpine styling perhaps plays a part in why he believes “that it’s mothers who have usually been more invested in dressing their children”. He points, for a historical example, to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who “wrote letters to her friends about all the outfits she was making for her son … she goes on in a very gushing way about how gorgeous he looks in all the clothes.
“Your child was an accessory in a sense,” he continues. You could “demonstrate, through the opulence of their clothing, your wealth and status”. It tallies. Back then it might have been “French silks, cut velvets … possibly a wig and a tricorn hat with gold lace”. Now it might be a Mini Rodini bomber jacket or an organic cotton onesie with a peace sign print. It sounds a bit grim but, as Arzuk says, “the way we invest” in our children “is a way of building up the social capital … it’s about investing in our position in society”.
A more fun spin would be to focus on the fact that today, adults dress more like children, with many predominantly kidswear brands now offering kid-inflected adult clothes that aren’t Crayola-bright or unicorn-heavy. Organic Zoo is one such company. According to its founder, Paulina Atkinson: “These days, there is a more visible connection between kids’ fashion and adults’ fashion, and both inspire each other. Kids’ clothes became more than just cute prints and adults’ styles are more relaxed and less formal.” Atkinson thinks this is a good thing, saying: “For a lot of parents and children, it is a great joy to twin with their outfits, so why not?”
Kids intrinsically dress well. They embody clothes with unabashed, unadulterated personality. They dress with a lack of self-consciousness; prints clash, colours bark, cuts squabble for attention but, because it is done without a care, it works. What adult wouldn’t want to emulate that?
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