My Naked Child

My daughter, the love of my life, my morning sun, hates getting dressed.

She loves clothes. She loves to shop for clothes, pick out clothes, talk about clothes, accessorize clothes and argue about clothes.

You'd think this kid would be all about getting dressed. You'd be wrong. The second hardest thing that I do in a day is get her into her pajamas. In fact, this task is so hard that if a. a bath is not required, b. her clothing has no strings or ties that might strangle her and c. she's not wearing jeans, I let her sleep in her clothes. I hate this, actually, it's more than hate. I am filled with such nauseating disgust when she comes stumbling out of her room in yesterday's clothes that I can barely contain myself.

But the pajama struggle is nothing compared to the morning dressing struggle. There are tears, threats, cries. Often we end up angry with each other, stalking to the car like carpool mates and not family members. Twice I have carried her to the car in nothing by underwear.

This morning was a particuarly bad day at want-to-wear-my-jammas-to-daycare-land. There was screaming and nashing of teeth and the smell of brimstone snuck through our house as I told Brynna that if she wasn't dressed before I left, then she could walk to daycare. Of course, this is a total bluff, but I was out of threats. I had already turned off the tv, taken away her toys and put her in time out.

The worst part is that this has gone on for approximately 3.7 years. I don't see this as a phase she will grow out of. I am seriously worried that she will be 16 and I will be standing in her doorway yelling that she absolutely CANNOT wear pajamas to school and she only has 10 minutes to get dressed before I snap and blow up the house.

Perhaps, though, this is her preparation to fulfill my lifelong dream of having a job where I can wear my pajamas to work. Maybe if I had stuck to my guns a little more about jammas jsut being better, I'd be there already.