This morning, Z surprised me and Josh both when she walked away from the Berenstain Bears broadcast and announced, "I'm going to get dressed for for work upstairs." Even though I'd barely had a sip of coffee, I told her I'd come with her to help and I grabbed the jeans and long-sleeved tee I'd brought downstairs just minutes prior.
At the top of the stairs, she made a hard left into my bedroom and said, "I'm going to get ready for work in Mommy's room. I take off my jammies by my self...Now, I need a bra." With a little help from me (I could barely contain my giggles), Z wriggled into a lovely beige cotton number that no longer accommodates my knocked-up knockers. It hung down to her waist like two very saggy old-lady boobs. One shrug and the whole contraption slid down to the floor, where she stepped out of it.
But she wasn't done. She grabbed a shirt from one of my drawers, slung it over her shoulder and said, "I'm going to work in Mommy shirt!" I grabbed the white shirt before it could swiffer up all of the cat hair on the floor, and Z demanded a boost up onto my dresser. There, she tried on all of my necklaces. Then it was onto makeup. I let her go to town with my eyeshadow brush and a still-sealed loose powder. She made painting strokes all over her face and neck while singing, "I'm making myself pretty like a Mommy!"
As the mini glamorpuss hour stretched on, I realized we needed to get the girl dressed for daycare. So I tossed her onto "the big bed" (aka our bed) where she abandoned all pretensions of grown-upness and proceeded to jump up and down, clap her hands, stick out her tongue, shriek like a banshee and evade my attempts to dress her.
And once I finally got her dressed? She peed in her pants. But I was strong. I got her a fresh pair of cotton training underpants and told her she'd have better luck at Adriana's house.
