Drowning in Taffeta


Belt Pride

From the prize bag, Boo today selected a bejeweled pink belt — $3 from Target. And, much as I hate to admit this, she made it look good.

Beats me how it happened, but my daughter has become a clothes fanatic: she changes at least five times a day and usually more. She wore three different bathing suits in the bath yesterday, rejecting the second one for the incredible reason that “it got too wet.” In the bath.

Once, I was proud of her fashion sense. I’m still a little proud but mostly it’s a pain in the ass.

Sometimes she’s re-dressing to procrastinate, of course, as in, “No, I can’t come to dinner: I have to put on my ballet clothes!” Or she’ll want to wear “baby clothes” when we’re lavishing too much attention on baby Blueberry. Most of the time, though, there’s no discernible reason why her internal regulator suddenly decrees that her outfit must be changed.

You’re probably about to tell me that I’m crazy to complain: it’s a creative endeavor, she does it almost entirely independently (alas! except when buttons are involved), and, well, it’s pretty darn cute.

But you’re forgetting about the pile.

Every day, there are socks and dresses strewn on the stairs. Three perused and rejected pairs of pants in the bathroom. And shoes? Don’t even get me started. Just from where I sit here in the kitchen I can see an unused bib (Boo was playing baby again), a reindeer hair rubber band, a ballet skirt, the pants she was wearing before the ballet skirt, and a mysterious pair of green underwear. (Into the laundry with that last one; Boo’s habit does our washing machine no favors, either.)

We fill baskets, bags, tubs, and take them back to Boo’s room. I could, no joke, spend an hour a day just re-sorting the clothing if I were so inclined — or if I had an hour a day.

The only disciplinary plan that’s suggested itself to me (got any more suggestions? I am open like a convenience store) is “clothing jail”: anything left out gets disappeared into a garbage bag for a day or a week. And that seems too harsh for a three-year old; that, and there would be no end of tantrums about not having the right Dorothy-from-Oz shoes (of which she has four pairs in various colors and sizes).

All of which is to plead with you, loyal readers: if you don’t hear from me for a week, send help. I’ve probably gotten myself tangled in a pile of tights with pictures of little kittens on them.