Fashion. Fashion? Fashion! FASHION!
I wrote a little today on my adoption blog about our daughter's passive, docile nature in her first few days with us.
That didn't last long.
The transition in our daughter once she had her feet under the table was remarkable and deserves it's own post over on the adoption pages. Suffice it to say, it has been a bumpy, enjoyable, frustrating, amazing ride.
One thing we hadn't anticipated was her very. No. VERY firm opinions on what she wears.
We are ,mystified as to where she obtains the ideas that clearly influence her so much. From the point at which we adopted our daughter we wanted to ensure she was open to feminine influences. Living in an otherwise all male household we were concerned that she shouldn't lose any sense of her gender. As far as fashion goes we need have no concern.
She is open to influence, occasionally. Especially if bribery is involved.
This outfit was one I persuaded her to wear to a birthday party held by one of her friends.
We were going for a county casual look, which I think we achieved.
Given that this was the party where I managed to get stuck in the giant mangle which formed part of the children's play area within which it was held, I was at least sure of being rescued by a well dressed young lady.
More often our three year old daughter is far less prepared to negotiate. Left to her own devices she will come up with an eclectic range of clothing.
Usually clashing in terms of both colour and pattern.
Quite often with an ethnic tinge of some kind.
One of her favourite looks is to wear a dress. With trousers. J call's it Sharia Chic. Particularly when wearing a green dress with white trousers.
She's also been known to layer clothes in such a way that she appears to be a wayward Roma. J thought she might be able to make some money on the underground in this outfit. I pointed out that any attempt to obtain money by our daughter dressed like this on the underground would attract the interest of British Transport Police.
Our daughter does, occasionally get quite fixed ideas in her head about what she would like to wear. Or indeed, what she considers appropriate to wear for an occasion.
I've mentioned previously that our son attended our local Beaver Scout group. About once per term we had to help out, which is what my blog on the subject describes. On all other occasions we just had to ensure that our son turned up on time. This meant invariably delivering him to the interior of the scout hut, ensuring he didn't fall into the stream which you have to cross in order to get to the front door. Or was flattened by one of the myriad of four wheel drives depositing his little Beaver colleagues to the venue.
Invariably, this journey was undertaken by our daughter too, J not being home in time to either take our son or care for our daughter.
There was the occasion when our daughter decided she wanted to dress as a sheep for the day. This wasn't too much of a problem. We weren't going anywhere that day. So spending the day as a sheep wasn't too much of a problem.
Until it came time to take our son to Beavers.
Would she change?
"No!" She answered. "I want to go as a sheep."
Our son just raised his eyes. By this point he was used to his sister's vagaries.
Would she at least put a coat over her outfit?
"No!" She answered.
Time was against us. So I took our son, in his nice, clean Beaver uniform, with his freshly pressed scarf, to the scout hut. With our daughter. The sheep.
Preparing to enter the scout hut, I was thinking of the various excuses I might need to have for the rather formidable Beaver leadership team and any other parents I encountered as to why my daughter was dressed as Flossie.
The thing was. No one seemed to notice.
I deposited our son. He went off to play happily. 'Badger' the group leader doing the meeting and greeting that evening, seemed not to notice. "Bye *3yo*" she said as we made to leave.
"Baaaa!" Answered our daughter.
"See you later," Badger said.
Yesterday morning we had a bit of an incident in our home.
It involved me. Some stairs. A toothbrush thrown like a tomahawk. And a very short period of unconsciousness.
The consequence was our daughter got to dress herself.
Layering as many different styles as possible. If I hadn't had a headache from falling down the stairs, I would have had one having seen our daughter's clothing choice.
I wonder whether the tomahawk throwing was purely to ensure she got to wear items in a combination I would otherwise have vetoed.