Recently the Man took it upon himself to touch up the paint on the garage floor. This is a topic of some sensitivity in the household, since we disagree on whether the condition of the garage floor, which resides underneath the car, is or is not a more urgent priority than the fingerprints under the breakfast bar.
Unfortunately, I seem to have lost the coin toss, because the garage is getting its dream makeover and my breakfast bar is remaining a blotchy-faced adolescent for a while. Also, it’s a double loss, since the contents of the garage are currently seeking temporary shelter in our bedroom.
I can deal with that, because I am used to living in chaotic mess. What I cannot deal with is the fact that said garage contents are the bazillion bins of baby, infant, and toddler girl clothes, all lovingly folded, labeled, and sorted by size.
The bins are clear, as in see-through, because that ensures that the searcher can pinpoint the location of an exact outfit. That is convenient when I want to lend a few items to a friend. It is less convenient when it means that the Maiden can zero in on the perfect pink sleeper resting at the bottom of the stack.
The Maiden has a long and colorful history of wearing weird stuff. The winter she was 2 1/2 years old, she wore bathing suits every night and often during the day. (We ran up a really high heating bill to compensate, although we saved on the cost of sweaters.) She regularly wears clothes or costumes to bed, pairs mismatched stuff constantly, and her go-to outfit is a usually stained camp t-shirt paired with a poufy, girly skirt.
But where the Maiden really shines in the extraordinary fashion department is in the art of repurposing outgrown clothes.
Sure, we all have that favorite outfit skulking toward the back of the closet–the cute dress or top that we haven’t fit into since before we had kids, but are hanging onto *just in case*. But in the case of the Maiden, I have trouble understanding how she actually believes that someday she will remove the size 2T jumper and this time it will fit.
Of course, I sometimes wonder the same thing about my own stuff. Like mother, like blah blah blah.
Anyways, on days when my arms are too full of stuff to whisk her past the clothing bins in the garage on our way to the car, the Maiden notices Adored Outfits Long Gone and desperately desires them with such long and loud lamentations that I do the responsible parent thing and cave to get a moment’s peace.
Then she crams herself into the outfit, completely oblivious to the strictures of size, which means pleas for me to zip her up when it pretty much ain’t gonna happen. (Geeze, that also sounds familiar.)
I have given up trying to explain to her why, no, she cannot wear that microscopic t-shirt-sized dress as an actual dress. Yes, logically, it is a dress. And yes, logically, it is intended to be worn without pants. By a nine-month-old baby.
Fortunately, this time the only easily accessible bin was the size 0-3 months clothes, and even the Maiden must have realized the futility of trying to squeeze herself into the arms and legs of a sleeper that would fit her doll. In fact, she may have had exactly this thought process run through her mind, because her next move was to run for her baby dolls.
I kind of fear for my future grandchildren, because the Maiden is somewhat of a neglectful mother. Meaning that she happily acquires accessories for her baby dolls (or her dolls’ grandparents do), but then tends to use them to perform surgery on her stuffed animals, or employ them as connections when she makes a train out of my laundry baskets. The dolls sit in their pretty crib, naked, hungry, and unloved.
I feel sorry for them.
But this week, the dolls have been in heaven. They’ve been doted on by a mother who has renewed visions of parenthood thanks to the influx of legitimate baby clothes (and baby fingernail clippers, which were expediently removed by me). To be honest, she still tends to favor whichever of her daughters is dressed cuter at the moment. But fortunately, there are enough options in the box to satisfy even the most fickle mother, and the babies are having the time of their lives.
Soon, though, the garage will be finished, and the clothes will return to its home with a sigh of relief. Then the next batch of garage items will take up residence in the house.
Will it be the camping gear? Or the chainsaw? Now that should make for an interesting story . . .