Oh, the joy of a newborn baby: that soft, soft skin, the fuzzy hair, the cute little outfits. When V was first born, I didn’t mind much at all when she’d wet through or spit up, because there were 2,000 sweet baby outfits she was never gonna wear out anyway. Each clothing change was an opportunity! Look how cute she is! Isn’t that daaaarling? Dresses with ruffles and flowers, tartan skirts with black turtlenecks and knee-high biker boots, tank tops with shiny lettering: the kid had the most stylish (and diverse) wardrobe on the block.
Now, when it’s time to get dressed in the mornings (10 am or so, ‘round here), I usually ask V what she wants to wear. In the last few weeks, her answer has consistently been “Pajamas.” Sadly, that’s usually what she stays in: with no daycare, V is free to wander the house for days at a time, wearing the same jammies as the day before. Essentially, we’re too lazy to dress the child, and she doesn’t seem to mind.
Sometimes, though, a good song comes on the radio, and she’ll gaze up lovingly at Johnny Cash, pull on her pink cowgirl boots, and dance until her hair gets frizzy. Despite our best efforts, our daughter is discovering her own style. And though it scares me a little, I kinda like it.