Many moons ago, I made a promise to myself that I would not pass on my insecurities, my complexes or my dose of crazy to my child. I declared that I would never stand before a mirror, with my child by my feet, and insult my looks or my intelligence or my worth. I promised myself that even on my weakest days, I would keep up an appearance of strength, confidence and grace.

Oops.

A year and a half into this whole parenting thing and I have broken my promise, passing on my deepest, darkest complex, born from years of humiliation and harassment, to my son: fear of short pants.

I won't put my son in pants that show ankle! You can't make me do it!

I was always the tall kid. During my adolescence, long-sized pants did not exist. And if they did, they still were not long enough for my lanky limbs. I spent my childhood being told how lucky I was to be "all leg." But when I was 13, grunge was in, and capri pants were the opposite of cool. The only advice my mom gave to cope with the fact that every pair of pants I owned ended mid-shin was to pull up my socks. So I did. I pulled up my socks as high as they would go. Often, my socks ended before my pants began. If you are not a visual person and are having a hard time imagining this, allow me to fill in the gaps: I looked ridiculous — every day. It didn't help that I rarely could find matching socks.

Kids called me Katiedid Longlegs — and then it was Daddy Longlegs. Which led to Spider-woman and ended at Black Widow Spider. Better watch out! Black Widow is coming!

I would try everything I could to cover my ankles. I let out the hem on the bottom of my pants; that got me an inch. I sewed additional fabric onto the bottom of my jeans, giving it a bell-bottom look. Not very trendy in the grunge-centric '90s. Eventually, I realized I lived with a choice: I could cover my ankles or cover my bum. I chose to cover my ankles. I bought pants in sizes too big so I could pull them down low enough to cover my ankles. I then wore long shirts to cover my derriere. Most of the time, this worked. But on a few occasions, my shirt would get hiked up, and my bare bottom would be fully exposed for all of junior high to see. Black Widow Spider would become Butt Widow Spider.

I cursed my mother, blaming her genetics. I swore I would never, ever tell my insufficiently attired child to simply pull up his socks.

By the time high school started, long jeans became accessible. Even the longs were not quite long enough, but they sufficed. Capris came into fashion, but the mere thought of putting them on gives me an anxiety attack to this day. I've been too traumatized to go down the short-panted path again.

Which brings me to my son. At 18 months old, he's too short for his 24-month pants, but (conundrum alert!) his ankles show in the 18-month pants. Every morning, we spend at least 20 minutes while I get him dressed, do the ankle check, determine the pants are too short and try again until I finally settle on one of the too-big 24-month pairs. Sure, the bottom cuffs I make inevitably come undone — not to mention he is too skinny around the waist to hold up his slacks — but aren't a few daily stumbles on the playground worth having covered ankles?

My husband doesn't seem to think so. He is advocating keeping him in the "better-fitting" 18-month jeans for the simple and insignificant reason that our child doesn't fall when in them.

Last week, I reiterated my concern that my son will be referred to as a poisonous arachnid. My husband replied: "No one will call him that. When his socks are pulled up, you can't even see his ankles."

We are no longer on speaking terms.

I may not be able to keep my promise of not passing down all of my insecurities, complexes and idiosyncratic fear of exposed ankles to my child. But I will hold true to my 13-year-old self. No one will ever tell my baby to pull up his socks.

Beauty is pain.

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