What can I say? Little Fella likes the color pink. Despite all my efforts to form him in the traditional male mold and inspire his conformity to social expectations, he wants to wear his sister’s clothes and use the pink plates. The ballerina pajamas are particular favorites. They are size 18 months, but they have a little bit of a vee neck with buttons so it is possible to get it over his giant three-year-old head. He’s such a skinny little thing that the pants fit him better in the waist than most of his own clothes, but he’s average height, so he walks around in those things like they have three-quarter-length sleeves and capri pants. It’s a great look, especially with his eyelashes, which are luxurious.
As usual, laundry has gotten ahead of me, and so we’ve been doing the mad scramble for kids’ clothes all week. It was a pretty nice day out today, so I put Little Filly in a dress and I was going to put him in shorts. She hasn’t been in a dress for a while now, so it was pretty fun for her to have all that fabric to swish around. Hems started hopping and girls started jumping, and next thing you knew she was dancing. Well, Fella wasn’t going to sit by and watch that happen. He wanted dancing clothes, too. The closest pink clothes were the ballerina jammies from the laundry pile, so I hooked him up in the pants and he went dancing, too. They hopped, and twirled, and rolled, and posed, and swiveled for a good five minutes before I asked Fella what kind of dancing they were doing.
It was the pink excavator dance. Very interpretive. Mostly solo dancing happening on the same stage, but separately. It morphed into the pink dumptruck dance, but then it was time for lunch. The ballerina jammie pants had to go back into the laundry because they stank vaguely of yogurt, but they’d done good work for the day.
Susan Komen would be proud.