There is a specific kind of hell reserved for parents trying to undo five tiny plastic snaps while a three-year-old is doing the ‘I need to pee’ dance in a crowded Westfield bathroom. You know the one. The lighting is fluorescent, the floor is suspiciously damp, and you are fumbling with a piece of $12 fabric that suddenly feels like a Rubik’s Cube designed by someone who hates children. This is the reality of the Best and Less girls romper. It is the peak of ‘looks great in a flat-lay, works like garbage in the field’ fashion.
I’ve spent way too much time thinking about this because I am cheap. Well, not cheap—let’s say ‘economically cautious’—but also because I have a daughter who treats clothes like they’re disposable napkins. I’ve bought exactly 14 rompers from Best and Less in the last 24 months. I know this because I checked my bank statements last Tuesday when I should have been doing my actual job. Out of those 14, four of them lost a snap within the first three washes. That is a 28.5% failure rate for those keeping track at home. And yet, here I am, probably going back next Saturday to buy the new floral print.
The logistics of the $12 outfit
What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. The quality isn’t the point. You don’t go to Best and Less for heirloom pieces you’re going to pass down to your grandkids. You go there because your kid just grew three inches in a week and everything she owns now looks like a crop top. The rompers are a trap, though. They look so easy. One piece! Done! No matching socks! (Okay, you still need socks, but you get it).
But the snaps. My god, the snaps. They use these plastic poppers that feel like they’re made of recycled milk cartons. If you don’t align them perfectly—and I mean to the millimeter—they just won’t stay. I’ve seen my kid run across a park and have the entire crotch of her romper just… give up. It’s like the fabric surrendered to the concept of gravity. It’s embarrassing for everyone involved.
If you’re buying the ones with the tiny buttons down the back instead of the snaps at the bottom, you are a masochist. There is no other explanation.
I once spent ten minutes in the back of a Toyota Kluger in a beach car park trying to get my daughter into one of those button-back ones after a swim. She was sandy. I was sweaty. The buttons were the size of a grain of rice. I ended up just letting her wear my oversized t-shirt with a belt made of a spare shoelace. We looked insane. Never again.
I’m going to be honest about the ‘Organic’ range
I know people will disagree with me on this, and honestly, I might be wrong, but the ‘Organic Cotton’ line at Best and Less feels like a total marketing grift. I’ve touched the $8 basic cotton rompers and the $15 organic ones, and I’m telling you, it’s the same stuff. Maybe the organic one was grown near a forest or something, but on the skin? It feels like standard jersey cotton that’s been washed once. It’s not softer. It doesn’t hold its shape better. In fact, I think the organic ones shrink more. I measured the ‘Baby Berry’ organic romper after a 40-degree wash and it lost 22mm in length. That’s a lot of leg room for a toddler.
I refuse to buy the licensed stuff there too. The Bluey and Disney rompers are usually 100% polyester or some weird blend that feels like a shower curtain. I don’t care how much she begs. Putting a kid in a polyester romper in an Australian summer is basically slow-cooking them. It’s cruel. I’ve become that parent who stands in the aisle aggressively feeling the fabric of every single item like I’m judging the quality of silk in a 19th-century bazaar. People stare. I don’t care.
Total waste of money.
A brief detour into the horror of glitter
While we’re on the subject of cheap girls’ clothes, can we talk about the glitter? Best and Less has this habit of taking a perfectly fine romper and then sneezing ‘glitter print’ all over it. That glitter isn’t just a design choice; it’s a biological hazard. It gets in the wash, it gets on the couch, it gets in the dog’s fur. I found a piece of glitter from a 2022 Christmas romper in my keyboard three weeks ago. How? We moved houses since then! Anyway… back to the actual construction.
The 14-romper experiment results
I’ve developed a very specific system for these now. If you’re going to buy them, you have to follow these rules or you’re just throwing money into a pit. I’ve tracked the wear and tear on our ‘collection’ and the data is pretty clear:
- The Ribbed Cotton ones: These are the champions. They have more stretch, which means the snaps don’t under as much tension when the kid sits down. They last twice as long as the flat jersey ones.
- The ‘Woven’ styles: Avoid. They have zero give. If your kid breathes too hard, the seams at the armpits start to fray.
- Sizing up is a lie: If you size up in a romper, the crotch ends up at their knees and they trip over. You have to buy the exact size, which means they only fit for about 14 days. It’s a logistical nightmare.
I used to think that spending $45 on a ’boutique’ romper from some shop on Instagram was the solution. I thought the quality would save me. I was completely wrong. They still get stained with spaghetti sauce. They still get lost at daycare. The only difference is that when a $45 romper gets a hole in the knee, I want to cry. When a $10 Best and Less one dies, I just use it as a rag to clean the oil off my bike.
I actually have this weird, irrational loyalty to the ‘Baby Berry’ brand despite everything I just said. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome for budget retail. I know the elastic in the legs is going to leave red marks on her thighs if I don’t stretch it out by hand first, and I still walk straight to that rack every time I’m in the mall.
Maybe it’s because the stakes are so low. There’s a freedom in clothing that you don’t have to respect. You can let them climb trees, crawl through mud, and paint with their hands while wearing a Best and Less romper. It’s the ultimate ‘yes’ outfit because the ‘no’ would cost more in mental energy than the outfit is worth.
Does she actually like wearing them? I don’t know. She’s three. She’d probably prefer to be naked or dressed as a dinosaur. But for now, she’s in the $12 floral romper with the slightly wonky snap. It’ll do.
Buy the ribbed ones. Ignore the glitter. Good luck with the bathroom breaks.
