What to do when 5-year olds dress better than you

On the bus the other morning en route to my office, I talked to one of the regulars who gets on a few stops after mine. We usually just smile at each other, recognizing our status as frequent fliers on the 8:30 a.m M31 shuttle. She's about 40 and has a little girl, who sometimes joins her on the bus. The kid is really cute and polite, so if she's with her mom, we'll sometimes all chat about stupid stuff, like the weather or the unreliability of the M31. I get the feeling the mom welomes our little chats, because I'm guessing she spends a lot of time with her and she appreciates a moment to herself while Nancy* and I confer about Dora the Explorer's recent exploits. That morning, Nancy was very proud of her new shoes and proudly displayed them to me, swinging her feet up. They were gorgeous. I knew they cost more than mine, brown faux-suede ankle boots with a one-inch wooden heel that cost $40. Hers looked like this, only in navy:

Cute, right? These shoes cost $175 at J. Crew, or roughly 17 and-a-half barbacoa burritos with guac. I would never spend that much on my phantom children's shoes, but to each their own. I blew $4,000 on a fake tooth. What a waste.

The little girl's coat was also pretty darling: a dark green pea-coat with a hood (why don't they make hoodies on adults' cloth coats?), brass buttons and princess shoulders. Her gray tights matched her pearl-gray patent headband. She would fit in at any Midtown office. Except she's five. And can't read yet. 

Granted, I live in a posh, conservative part of Blergistan, where children and their mothers are often decked out in garb that costs more than my yearly rent, so I might just be suffering from a little envy. (Their nannies' clothes, are, of course, not so costly.) But when did kids' clothing start becoming purely fashion? When did they become as over-styled as adults? Lets examine the tots over at J Crew:

 
For the love of Egyptian cotton.

I don't know what's sadder: that a 5-year-old makes me feel insecure, or that I covet her wardrobe. I know, there could be worse problems. Maybe it's time to start shopping at Bebe...

* Sadly, I have no idea what her name is, but I've taken to calling her Nancy in my head.