Yesterday, Little Miss decided she would wear her party skirt. And nothing else. All day.
I did persuade her to put on some tights (pink, of course) and a hoodie around 4pm. But she took the hoodie off around 4:15pm.
I can’t believe Little Miss already shows such a preference for or sheer hatred of (in the case of her windproof/waterproof salopettes) certain items of clothing at such a young age. She makes it very clear if she doesn’t like what you’ve chosen, screaming and writhing until either you give up, or you’ve wrestled her into the item in question (usually a two man job). During the summer, I mainly let her choose what she wore, but now the cold weather has really set in, sometimes, you you just have to take charge – for instance, a topless toddler isn’t ideal on days you need to leave the house.
Apparently, Little Miss is quite the girlie girl. She loves her dolls, her tea set, poofy skirts, dressing up and anything pink.
I was a real tomboy. No pink, no skirts, no dresses, nothing remotely girly at all until my mid-teen years, so this is a bit alien to me. I lived in baggy t-shirts and cycling shorts (yes, really) until I was 10. (Even it being the 90s can’t excuse that disregard for style.)
Compare that to Little Miss basically narrating me getting ready for Blogfest15 on Saturday; “Tights! Tights!” she cried as I pulled on my tights, calling for me to get her’s from the top drawer. I wore a slightly poofy bell shaped red tartan skirt (I’ve moved on from my tomboy years, as you can see). As soon as Little Miss saw it, she disappeared momentarily, before running back with a big smile and a little pink tartan skirt (her favourite).
As I applied my eyeliner, she managed to get her feet in the skirt herself but couldn’t pull it up past her diaper; “Mamiii!” she commanded, shuffling to me and tugging ferociously on my skirt. I quickly whipped the skirt up over her pj bottoms and the smile on her face was utterly adorable. She stood next to me in the mirror as if to say, “look Mami, we’re the same.”
Bless. I wonder at what age she’ll recognise me as the really badly dressed kid in baseball caps and baggy Rugrats t-shirts in the photo albums and lose all respect for me…
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