An honest take on life and parenthood

Pants optional

on March 28, 2013

2013-03-24_12-46-35_30There comes a time in every mother’s life when she stops caring about what her child is wearing, just as long as the child is wearing something.

For me, that time started when the Pooh turned three in February.

The Pooh has always been a homebody. She doesn’t go to preschool, since I work part-time from home, so she loves lounging in her own digs, playing with her toys, drawing while she catches some Sprout TV. She is now old enough to have opinions about what she wants to wear – and not wear. Lately, the less she wears, the happier she is.

Oddly, this is occurring in the dead of winter. In New England. But in the Pooh’s mind, it might as well be Eden, because she would rather not wear a stitch of clothing.

After her bath at night, she loves to lie in her bed under a pile of baby blankets and have post-bath relaxation time with her favorite blankie. I can usually get a diaper onto her. After some coaxing, I can get her into a onesie, and then finally, pajamas. It’s a process.

But when she gets up in the morning and the pajamas come off, she might just decide to hang out in her onesie – or just her diaper. No socks. No shirt. No pants.

Meanwhile, I’m fully clothed, wearing a sweater, socks, and often a fleece jacket, drinking hot tea or coffee to stay warm as I field conference calls, respond to emails, and work on various projects.

Here is a typical exchange when I pop out of my office for a quick break:

Me: Sweetie, aren’t you cold?

Pooh: No, Mommy. Can I have a popsicle?

I don’t understand this polar bear child. Both her father and I tend to always feel cold. Meanwhile, her little hands and feet are always toasty warm. One of our favorite activities is to sit next to her on the couch so that she puts her warm feet on us. It’s like having a tiny personal hot water bottle.

She is happy and comfortable, so I guess I shouldn’t complain, but it kills me that she has a closet stuffed with beautiful clothing that she rarely wears.

From the time she was born, she was a clothes horse. There is so much adorable clothing for little girls, and my mom, my sister, her godmother, and my mother-in-law could not resist, just as I could not. The Pooh’s closet is full of bright play clothes, fancy dresses with ribbons and fluffy tulle skirts, adorable jumpers, smocked dresses with peter pan collars and embroidered rosebuds, colorful socks, a shoe collection to rival Imelda’s, and hair ribbons, bows, and headbands in countless colors.

And she wears practically none of it.

So now, when she actually puts on clothing, I don’t care if it matches. Anything is better than her birthday suit.

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