There is suddenly a two year old in the house with wardrobe opinions. Strong, maniacal, meltdown-inducing wardrobe opinions. They’re not so much opinions as terrorist demands coupled with no respect for how the institution of “laundry” works.

Listen up Little Pirate, you cannot, I repeat, you cannot eat a chocolate fudgesicle, let it melt down your shirt and expect to wear that shirt to bed and back to school the next day! Monkey shirt is dirty! “How about Kitty Kat shirt?”


Aah yes, there it is. “Mine.” We know the word “mine” around here, it’s used about 4000 times a day. The main item on the Negotiation Tactics of Toddlers Menu is “mine.” I made the mistake last week of channeling my parents and saying, “No, it is NOT yours. Do you have a job? Did you pay for it? No, I did. I paid for it, so it’s MINE.” (I honestly don’t know where in my brain these memories are stored but you can bet your sweet ass when I’m under pressure they come flying out of my mouth, straight from 1977.)

She responded pretty quickly. “MINE!”

“How about Tiger Shirt?”

“NOOOOO! NO TIGER SHIRT!” This cues a huge meltdown. Someone kill me. Or pass me a Xanax. The tiger just looks like a cat, sort of like Tony the Tiger, except he’s accompanied by a Triumph Motorcycle Logo. (I had to try…not everything can be pink you know.) I was an idiot to not buy a palette of Monkey Shirts but how was I supposed to know that this would become the coveted clothing item of the season?

Lucky the First Mate doesn’t complain about her wardrobe. She’s gone a straight week without an outfit change. That teddy bear onesie has so much dried milk on it you would think we have our own pet cow. Oh wait. Moo. Which brings me to another point.

I’m pretty sure the only thing offered on the beverage cart of the Wood Paneled Station Wagon was formula. No one had time for this breast milk nonsense, and by no one, I mean my mother. I can see why. If I could just ditch the boob it would give me a lot more free time to do things like write here about the Little Pirate and First Mate. And launder Monkey Shirt.

On the third day of Monkey Shirt demands I said Monkey Shirt was dirty and I had to wash it. I didn’t expect what I got back.

“I paid for it!”

Hmmph. I think I prefer “mine.”

I hate you, Monkey Shirt.

I hate you, Monkey Shirt.