See that face? That's the pained look my daughter makes when I'm forcing her to do something against her will (see also: eating food, wearing shoes, talking to Grandpa on Skype). Here, I am encouraging her to try on this dress I made for her this week and pose for pictures.
She's only 26 months old and already she's clued into the idea that every kid's modus operandi should be thwarting the Things That Mom Really Wants Me To Do. I thought I had a few years of co-operation before that kicked in. But so it begins. In fact, this might be the last time she wears this dress. (If she continues to refuse to wear it, maybe I'll raffle it off here. I hope your kid has skinny arms like mine does: the armholes are on the small side, and I don't have any of this butterfly fabric left to remake it. I guess I could always rip the sleeves out and turn it into a sleeveless romper dress.)
Some kids seem to live to please their parents. Mine is like I was: my mom loved pink, ergo I hated it. My mom adored watching me dance, therefore I threw tantrums on the way to ballet class. Some would call that bratty, but I'm guessing it has something to do with asserting independence, blah, blah, kill your mother, marry your father, blah blah...what was I saying?
I'm already working hard on playing it cool re. the things I hope she gets into. Like music. My one regret is that I have never learned to play an instrument. Of course I could learn now. I'm a big girl — and there are three guitars, a mandolin, a harmonica and calimba in our apartment. But thanks to that jerk Malcolm Gladwell, we all know mastering any new skill takes roughly 10,000 hours of practice, and who has that kind of time? I'm only on episode 6 of this season of Mad Men.
Anyway, though she may never wear it again, I'm really proud of this dress because it's a little shred of evidence that I mastering this new skill. Only like, 9,876 hours to go.