As I biked home from work, her outfit surprised me. Lately, I've been attempting to have her dressed before going downstairs in the morning. To expedite the process, I let her choose the outfit, as she likes to call it. When she picks, she has no problem quickly pulling the shirt over her head, the panties up around her bum, or the pants around her waste. It sounds great, but it doesn't always work out the way we want. Often, even though the outfits we lay out match nicely, she has a way of mixing and matching.
"Dis shirt."
"These pantses."
"Oh honey, are you sure? These would go a little bit better."
"Why Daddy?"
"Because they match."
"But, this outfit is perfect." She dashes away, a flurry of arms and legs hastening to show Mommy. "This outfit perfect?" I hear her say to Mommy.
"Tahlia, did you dress yourself?"
Mommy asks because the butterfly shirt with the earth tones doesn't really go with the primary green peddle pushers with lady bugs.
"Daddy, did I pick the outfit myself?" Lately, when asked a question, even when she knows the answer, she usually defers it to a person who was there at the conception.
And as I bike over the rise onto the basketball court, it shouldn't surprise me to see her, I, after all, participated in the dressing this morning.
But I don't see the green. Instead, there is a little purple princess standing atop the pavement next to Mommy. A tulle attached skirt rides over he little green pedal pushers. The sequins on her leotard top glisten now purple, now red, now silver. Her blond hair blows freely in the afternoon breeze.
She, of course, dressed herself.
No comments:
Post a Comment