All three girls decided they wanted to dress themselves this morning. Peyton, at age 8, does a fairly good job picking her outfits - usually. Today her choice didn't impress me, and it certainly did not rank in her top ten. With great thought, she decided on a pink tank top (it was raining outside) a fall-colored sweater poncho deal, and a beige cordouroy skirt. I managed to convince her to ace the poncho and switch out the skirt for some jeans, and go for a more weather-friendly shirt. I must do this with the diplomacy of skilled politicians, lest I insult her fashion sense.
Quincy was pretty much good to go in a pair of capri jeans and a long-sleeve tee. My "easy" child...
Brooklyn... Sweet little Brooklyn... the most determined and ridiculously dressed of the three came down in: a Mexican summer dress, a bathing suit top (this is a staple of her daily wardrobe) and not one, but two pairs of pants, and yes, they were inside out. For shoes she had on her black Christmas patent leather "high heels" as she calls them. Perfect.
Then there is hair to contend with. Three blonde heads line up at the bathroom sink - small to large. Each child is begging with a passion and zeal you'd have to hear to believe, to be "First" because among the three girls, going first is of utmost importance and significance. I go for the closest head in front of me: Brooklyn's. I work deftly, because any wasted time will result in only a partial brushing. She quickly becomes impatient with hair-dos and often times I find myself trying to pop a pretty on her head while she twists and runs out the bathroom door. I manage to get a rubberband and bow in her delicate little locks and count myself very successful.
Quincy is next. While I begin removing tangles from her hair, she decides to multi-task and starts brushing her teeth. I want to tell her to -wait- until I'm done with her hair, but I'm distracted by Peyton emptying all the clips and rubberbands onto the counter. I tell her to 'knock it off,' which isn't my favorite parenting request- or demand, rather... but it's efficient. Brooklyn decides her teeth need brushing too, so she follows suit standing atop the toilet seat. Peyton is telling me in great detail the kind of hair-do she wants... I'm wrestling with Quincy's hair while she spits toothpaste in the sink. Brooklyn spits her toothpaste too, and it lands directly on Quincy's hand and toothbrush which, I don't think I need to tell you, causes hysterics from Quincy. I manage to calm her from the intolerable injustice she just suffered and finish her hair at the same time. Two done. Quincy sprints from the bathroom and launches herself down the hallway in an impressive cartwheelish rolling feat - completely messing up her hair. "Quincy!!! Your hair!" I tell her. "Woooops." She says guiltily in response. I grab Peyton and begin removing the one million tangles that gather in her hair by morning. She is protesting loudly as Brooklyn toddles off toward her room. From the bathroom I can see she is in her room, drawers open, reassessing her wardrobe options. "Brookie," I begin, while flipping Peyton's hair through a rubberband... "No. More. Clothes." But it's already too late. I see she has her last year's Holiday dress, which I no longer bother to hang up because it gets yanked from her closet (breaking hangers) everyday anyway. She struggles to wrangle it over her head, and I watch her brushed hair and successful hair-do fly out the window. She finally manages to get the dress all the way on - a velvet and chiffon number, over her Mexican summer dress. This seems to be just the touch she was looking for because with a satisified spin on her high heel shoe, she busts a move downstairs. I quickly touch up Quincy's hair, and tell the girls it's time to go.
I realize at this point I haven't even run a brush through my own hair. I get a load of myself in the mirror and without hesitation go directly for a hat.
Mug of cold coffee in one hand, and Brooklyn in the other, I head out the garage door. Peyton has made it to the mothership - the car, and is buckled and good to go. Thank God. One down. I catch Quincy trying to stuff her capri pants into her brown zip up boots and essentially tell her 'Noway in the world' while I get Brooklyn buckled in her carseat. Two. When Quinny realizes she is getting nowhwere with complaining and insisting she simply can.not. get her tennis shoes on, she pops the shoes on and dashes to the car, hops in (Three) and we're off. The girls are brushed, dressed, and ready for the world.
I, on the other hand, have looked better. :)
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