Notice anything about the photo? That closet is missing something. That any sane mom would be smart enough not to have. That causes more stress and wastes more money than a government shutdown.

It’s the color white.

As a new mom so many years ago, I thought my baby girl would look so cute in her pristine, white Dolce & Gabbana onesie with the cute fuzzy lamb or her darling cream-colored pea-coat from any other Name That Expensive store. Until I realized that baby’s poop. A lot. And it gets everywhere. Who knew?!

Who knew that diaper blowouts would leave stains that would make a grease mechanic pants look like the floor of a pharmaceutical company’s drug-making room. And who knew that such a delicate little flower would grow up to think dirt was meant to be worn like sunscreen. She lubes herself up with mud on the daily, in every crevice on her body and every square inch of her clothing. So we don’t do white anymore. At all. Ever. Even her socks are black. I’m that smart.

Dirt, poop, and chocolate are magnets to children and their clothes. SO WHY do retailers make a single piece of clothing the color white? Are they in cahoots with the laundry detergent people? Do stain remover companies have nudie pictures of the executives at Baby Gap, Carters and Gymboree? And I can guarantee that the washing machine companies are on the board of directors of this secret mob society.

But back to how smart I am. I had a relapse. Like any addict, you go without for a while and you think you’re in the clear. That you’ll never go back to the old you. Until your child starts preschool. And you find yourself standing at the retail checkout with five new outfits, all of which are white.

“That will look so good on her when I take her First Day Of School picture and post on Facebook”, I thought. “That white will make her blue eyes pop” and “Her teacher will think I have my S#!@ together if I can send a 3 year old to school in white clothes”. I had confidence in my kid. She’s matured. She’s self-aware. She’s all of the sudden become an adult.

They had spaghetti the day before my turd started her first day of pre-school. Thought we’d be in the clear. Looked at the lunch menu and it said “Cooks Choice” on Wednesday. Surely they wouldn’t serve THE WORST STAINING FOOD EVER two days in a row. They did. And my little lamb came home looking like she barely survived the bloody battle of Gettysburg. Like the self-taught surgeon realized she was a lost cause and left her open wound unstitched after being stabbed with a bayonet. I could have resold that white shirt as a red shirt, and probably could have fed another country off the spaghetti that was STILL STUCK to it.

I pre-treated, scrubbed, washed and pre-treated again. I Pinterest’ed and found homemade concoctions of vinegar, spit, shaving cream and the filtered urine of a young Yak (ok, I made up that last one). I even called my mom. Nothing worked. Nothing. The little bulldozer now has a new addition to her play clothes. Congratulations kid, you won.

And now I’m back in rehab. I’m acutely aware of every item of clothing she puts on for school. I have the lunch menu memorized the second it hits my inbox. I’ve learned my lesson. Until the next time I need a fix, I’m reminded to take one day at a time. To celebrate the wins. To appreciate that we all make mistakes. To Eat. The. Dirt.

I just wish my kid would eat less of it.