Pantless

When I dreamt (dreamed?) of becoming a mother, there were lots of things I imagined. Cute little baby laughs. Tiny baby tushies. Reading my favorite childhood books with my children snuggled around me. I was even smart enough to imagine the not-so-fun parts like poopy diapers and spilled milk (see how smug I am?).

One thing that did not enter into my mind?

Fighting about pants. Oh, Blair – we fight about pants every day. Not which pair of pants she could wear. But just wearing pants in general. Little Bear would prefer to be sans pants 24-7. And not just pants. Really any type of clothing designed for the bottom half of her body. I’m not sure if she thinks t-shirts are dresses, if she’s trying to assert her independence, if she just hates pants, or if she’s messing with me.

I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

Regardless, I have to shove  gently place her little legs into pants/leggings/shorts/skirt/diaper cover each morning. And she reacts like said clothing item is made of hot acid. As a result, this is what our mornings look like. Every. Single. Day.

In between high-pitched screams, she's yelling "Take. Pants. Off. LEASE!!!! (Please)"

This was just this morning. In between high-pitched screams, she’s yelling “Take. Pants. Off. LEASE!!!! (Please)” At least she’s polite about it.

And a 20-30 minute fit ensues. She typically recovers enough to eat breakfast, or at least to toss it on the floor. She seems resigned to the fact that we will NOT be letting her leave the house in just her diaper, so she moves on.

At least until it’s time to put on her socks, that is.

 

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