My sister dies when we are on the phone. In between our very important conversations about vintage sample sales and failed crock pot attempts and my dog eating my underwear again, she gets to hear me. THE REAL ME. The one who says things like, “NO! You cannot come to my dinner table with no pants on!” and “Wait, what do you have in your vagina?” and “please stop putting your bum on me.”
Here’s the thing. Isabella, if she could, would spend 24 hours of her day in the nude. It’s true.
PANTS ARE THE ENEMY.
The minute she walks in the door after school, while combing the shelves of the pantry for many, many snacks, she drops trou right there in the kitchen. She’s a free spirit, it seems. But, you know, I’m a fan of picking my battles. There’s only so many minutes in my day I can devote to physically torturing my child to get her pants, or her tights, or her skirts on her body. Sometimes it’s just not worth it. Most times, actually.
A few nights ago she and I went to pick up Josh from a birthday party. Isabella wore a shirt and tights and shoes. She was quite the vision, let me tell you. It’s funny, though, because you can tell right away which people are parents to non-pantswearers. They look at you with the OH I KNOW smileslashshrug of solidarity. They have been there.
And then there are the supportive friends who tell you that hey, if it’s good enough for Lady Gaga….
Last night she arrived at the dinner table dressed in a jacket and tights and nothing else to not eat the dinner she asked me for – chicken, rice, and edamame – and opted instead for an apple.
I suppose it’s not really her fault, though and I probably shouldn’t be surprised.
Her mother never wears pants either.