I've got that kid. You know, the one who doesn't want to wear clothes.
As a former babysitter with decades of experience, I've witnessed it up close. One child wouldn't wear clothes before noon. The mother told me that she just went with it, and eventually the child grew out of it to become a lovely girl who took a job in an exclusive women's clothing store. Oh, the irony.
But I was not prepared for how hard it would be to keep clothes on my own kid. Literally, a temper tantrum ensues if I try to replace the diaper left behind in some corner of the living room. I try to force the issue because she's not potty-trained yet. And even if I manage to get the shirt back on her, she takes it right back off. If I persist in keeping her clothed, we both end up in a horrible mood. It's really not worth it if we're just hanging around the house.
Needless to say, it's been a tricky month for me. I can convince her to wear clothes if we're headed anywhere outside, but like the fearless mother who has treaded the path before me, I have decided to let her be naked if she really wants it that much. And pray that she grows out of it, sooner rather than later.
This morning, Helen and I were reviewing the names of various body parts. I taught her a new one ("ankle") and eventually moved on to "boobies." I've tried other euphemisms, but for now the name has stuck. Thank you, anonymous daycare teacher.
Anyway, when I asked her where they were, she covered them with her hands and said sternly, "Leave my boobies alone."
I sniffed, and wiped away a tear. Her father would be so proud.