Decisions, decisions, decisions. Do we want undies or diapers? If diapers – then “big girl” (pull-ups) or baby diapers? Pants or dress? Which socks? Shall we dress ourself or have “Mamadoit?”
Getting dressed is not easy when you are two. It is not easy for the two year-old, and not easy for her mama.
Today was a good day for undies, we both agreed on that. Saturday, no errands, home all day. However, apparently the undies I had chosen were not satisfactory: “Nnnnno!” So I pulled out a second pair of absolutely identical undies and held them both out. “Would you like these undies or these undies?” I ask as patiently as I can manage.
My daughter M regards the proffered panties and examines each pair with great concentration, apparently not realizing that they are exactly the same. After much deliberation, she chooses one: “Dis one!” she says. As I begin to put the rejected undies back in the drawer she yells: “No, no, no! Dat one! Dat one!”
Now that The Great Panty Debate is behind us, we turn to the issue of clothing. My two year-old tiny tyrant marches off into the depths of the closet and emerges with a size four t-shirt that I was saving at the back of a shelf until she grew into it. I uselessly try to explain that the shirt is too big, but my littlest one is too busy trying to jam it over her head to listen or care. She finally flings the shirt down and it lands in a cold puddle of water on the bathroom floor. Now it can’t be worn.
After much screeching and posturing from us both, we eventually come to a truce. The wet shirt goes, but M shall choose the replacement outfit. She once again disappears into the dark reaches of the closet and reappears with a rather masculine striped t-shirt previously belonging to her brother (at least it was the correct size) and a gauzy pink dance skirt.
“Mines! Mines! Mines!” she yells as she struggles to squeeze her head through the sleeve of the t-shirt. I know better than to interfere, and sit back to watch the show. The flailing and grunting and crying escalate until she flings the offending shirt at me while barking out the order: “Mamadoit!”
“What do you say?” I ask calmly. “Pleeeeez” she responds, and she finally deigns to accept my assistance with the dressing procedure.
Total time? 24 minutes. I feel I need a nap or a glass of wine, or perhaps both…and I have only been up for about an hour.
~~~+++Happy Mothers’ Day weekend! +++~~~