One of the things I looked forward to most about having a daughter was knowing that for at least a couple of months, I’d be able to dress her up in frilly little dresses. After two boys, I’d been eying all things pink hungrily for so long that I was in ecstasy when I was finally able to cross into the pink.
Fortunately, my daughter seems to love dresses. She also has her own tastes, something that I can completely approve of. I was the same way as a child. My mother tried to shove me in her Polyanna dresses and denim overalls and I rebelled. Occasionally, she won, but more often than not, she didn’t.
(she won with the stupid fucking bangs. Those bangs haunt me)
My daughter a Mini-Hulk. If she doesn’t get her way, she will lay down on the ground and kick and scream for hours until we can distract her. It’s unbelievable. If I wasn’t suffering from permanent hearing loss from her shrieking, I’d probably find it hilarious.
Normally when it comes to clothes, we don’t do battle. Not yet, at least. I’m aware that these battles are coming, but for now, we have an easy peace.
When the Pottery Barn Kids catalog came in the mail, my son Alex immediately zoomed in on his Halloween costume: “Spike, the *ahem* MANLY beautiful butterfly.”
The pictures are going to go up under a SPOTLIGHT in my hallway. NO ONE is going to miss this. Including all of his future dates. Payback for being the most unpleasant baby ever.
Ben, the 9-year old, is going to be a pirate. *snooze*
That leaves my darling HULK SMASH daughter to costume. Initially, I was thrilled to buy her a costume. I’ve always delighted in dressing my children absurdly for Halloween.
I give you this as evidence:
My son, the Halloweenier.
I’ve been excitedly pouring over Halloween costumes for Amelia. Would she be a peacock? A mermaid? A ballerina?
I didn’t want to purchase something without some inkling of her approval, knowing her propensity to destroy entire villages with her HULK SMASH anger, so one by one I’d hold up the costumes only to be rejected time and time again.
Clearly, my toddler didn’t understand the concept of Halloween. And I couldn’t explain it to her.
Why, you say, Aunt Becky, why don’t you just leave her be and let her wear normal clothes trick-or-treating? Well Prankster, I’d respond gravely, I’m terrified that the moment she sees her brothers in costume, she’s going to go apeshit. And when Amelia goes apeshit, the world cowers in terror.
So, when I was picking up some disposable Old Navy clothes, I threw a princess costume into my shopping cart. It was cheap and worst case scenario, I figured that she could use it to play dress-up with if she chose another Halloween costume.
Excited to show her the costume, I carefully unwrapped it and made a big deal out of presenting it to her, figuring a little pomp and circumstance could only help my cause.
I handed it to her and I swear to you Pranksters, I have never seen my daughter, the one who loves dresses and tutus, more disgusted by something in her life. She ripped the costume from my hands, threw it on the ground in horror and if she hadn’t been wearing a diaper, I swear she would have taken a piss on it. I picked it up before she could tear it apart with her teeth.
I was shocked. Also: horrified. I would probably have cut someone for that costume as a child.
I guess she won’t be wrestling me for the title “Princess Sparkle, Sparkle” any time soon. Somewhere, my mother is chortling, thrilled that I have a clone.
Also: I am so screwed.