The clash of the tights

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I can’t believe fall is already here! This is my […]

downloadI can’t believe fall is already here! This is my favorite season, and it’s not due to the pretty foliage or overabundance of pumpkin-flavored everything—I’m mostly just a sucker for a great pair of boots.
I’ve been looking forward to sharing my adoration of autumnal attire with Bea. Since she came along, I’ve discovered that cold-weather baby clothes are my kryptonite: From mini cardigans and teensy patterned tights to fringed booties and Halloween costumes, cozily bundled babies make me weak in the knees. However, it’s good the transition into cooler weather is a gradual one, because it appears that actually getting my baby into all those adorable layers isn’t as easy as it looks.
After a spring and summer of slipping a sleepy newborn into flowy dresses and rompers, wrestling my now five-month old into snug fall outfits is a whole new experience. I think getting (and keeping!) cold-weather wear on a wiggly baby could be an Olympic sport … one in which I would place dead last.
Bea knows she has me beat, too. Her appendages are all sorts of spaghetti-noodley until a bodysuit or tights come out. Then, all of the sudden, her arms and legs have a very staunch opinion about which direction they will (and will not) bend, and her primary goal becomes to fling herself off of the changing table and onto the floor.
I frequently find myself standing like a linebacker above the changing table—squatting, mouth hanging open, sweat dripping from my brow—as I use one hand to pin my squealing, flailing child and the other to stuff her sweet, chubby thighs into a pair of skinny jeans that I thought were a good idea. Then, I risk my eyesight and my sanity as she Kung Fus her way out of every shoe or sock that comes her way. The other day she actually kicked her leg so forcefully that the shoe I had just put on her dainty foot flew into the air, ricocheted off my face and knocked a book off the shelf.
The struggle is real.
At the end of these battles she looks adorable, if not a little flushed, and I look like I’ve just barely survived a fistfight with a raccoon. But, of course, as soon as I catch my breath and re-apply deodorant, she dirties her diaper, and I’m back to square one—hurriedly peeling off each of the 12 adorable layers I just spent my morning squeezing her into.
Le sigh. It’s not exactly the mother/daughter bond I was looking for, but I’ll take it anyway—detached retinas and all. Plus, there’s a bright side: It’s still warm enough to get a bit more mileage out of the hippie look Bea’s been rocking all summer—dresses, bloomers, and bare feet. I have a few more weeks to get into shape, and maybe purchase a pair of safety goggles, before baby layering becomes a necessity. I’m going to enjoy it while I can!

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