I’ll get scant sympathy from those of you digging out from the usual winter (or celebrating a melted Christmas, below the equator), but we’ve had a week of heavy rain here in San Francisco.
Surplus indoor time means discovering new games and also new uses for our long, unruly hair, often all at once:
Boo, as you know, has a lot of hair, and no interest in cutting it. The weird thing about that isn’t that she has strong opinions (what almost-three-year old doesn’t?) but that she has a strong opinion about her grooming — a rarity, it would seem, amongst her friends, who mostly don’t seem to care much.
Thus: no haircuts for us.
Clothing is a la Boobaby, as well:
I’ve done an informal survey, and most of our friends are still at the “offer two outfits, pick one” stage of child dressing — a stage Boo blew past a year ago.
Then again, most of them (like *cough* Emmeline, the world’s best-dressed toddler) have lucked into parents with some fashion sense. Not so the case for Boo — in my closet resides nothing but fleece vests and jeans, and for her part, my wife is always well-dressed but pretty monochromatic. (Black is the new black.) No great surprise, then, that our daughter would want to pick her own clothes.
No surprise, either, that her sartorial supervision has extended to her collection of dolls, swollen by Christmas gluttony to six or seven. Last night before bed, we painstakingly dressed four of them before I insisted that bedtime had arrived, though even then Boo conned me into forcing a pair of her footie pajamas onto her three-foot stuffed Elmo.
Underlying all this, of course, is my utter amazement that a bug-loving tough girl with a stay-at-home dad would go the clothes-and-dolls route at all. Boo was supposed to be so busy tossing toy cars off the roof that she’d eschew girlish things like fashion and conversation.
Remind me never to expect anything. Or to get used to being wrong.