My youngest child is going through a 'naked' phase. I'll turn around for one second and suddenly she's running through the house at top speed, a little naked blur flying by. This is most likely to occur about the time the doorbell rings and the UPS man delivers the church Sunday School literature to my door or we are already late leaving the house for some appointment. It's not like I can put my naked baby into the car seat headed for the school to pick up her siblings (can I?). So, she must be stuffed forcibly into a pull up and clothing, which has to be eerily similar to the experience of putting a sweater on an octopus.
And yelling at a three-year-old to put her clothes on is like telling a cow to milk itself; as much as you want it to, it's just not going to happen. So in order to avoid the wrestling match that inevitably ensues when I try to cram the naked baby into clothing, I find myself attempting to justify the nakedness. Saying things to myself and visiting neighbors like "she's airing out" or "it's one less outfit I have to wash today."
I'm sure our friends and neighbors love us. There's nothing like driving down the road, minding your own business, and happening to glance over to see a child riding in a Wiggles Car, singing Barney at the top of her lungs, while wearing nothing but a red plastic fireman's hat and Dora the Explorer house slippers. I'm surprised there aren't more wrecks in front of our house.
The circus is in town this week, and I almost thought about taking the kids, but who am I kidding? What could they possibly be doing in that big tent that is more exciting than what's happening in my back yard? Seriously.