Thursday, November 1, 2007
This photograph captures a simple, cornea-blazing truth about life in our house. Though you would never guess it to look at this child, I spent several lunch hours over the past few weeks shopping for and acquiring adorable, coordinating, weather-appropriate fall clothes for her. You might never think that each item in this ensemble actually belongs to a far cuter, saner outfit. You would certainly never assume that said outfits were actually folded and organized in her drawer, ready to go but that, instead, her father chose to put her in this "interpretation," one that I am sure he thinks looks smashing. Quite frankly, I wouldn't be surprised to come home and find Sam wearing an ill-fitting newborn onesie, a pair of baby doll's socks, and Maddie's Elmo underwear as a beret. That's just how Eric rolls. And while it pains me to know my children are out in public dressed like a pair of displaced clowns, I have somehow come to accept that as part of the bargain. When you share childcare with your husband, he's going to want to do things his way. No matter how many times I insist that too much apple juice will rot Madeline's teeth, or that Return of the Jedi might not be appropriate for a three-year-old, or that maybe Sam shouldn't be allowed to fuss so long before he's picked up, Eric just pretends to listen and then does what he wants. And, I have to admit, sometimes it really sucks, because, damn it, they're my kids and they should be raised exactly as I say. If I was home with them all the time, their clothes would always match and they'd never watch TV and we'd all be perfectly perfect. Or not.