We spent the better part of the weekend goading her with candy, distracting her with singing/dancing/anthropomorphized Beanie Babies, and soaking rags in chloroform so the kid wouldn't be going commando when she left the house. But the raw fury she can muster when confronted with trousers is completely out of proportion with anything outside of zombie movies. If she'd been armed we'd both be dead.
I'm not one to enforce a strict clothing policy. I've been known to bend the rules a little when it comes to fashion, and can respect a little eccentricity. But removing one more protective layer between the earth's fragile ecosystem and one of Cheeky's sharts is more than good parenting--it's our responsibility to civilization.
I have no idea what kicked this latest phase off, but it's reached near apocalyptic dimensions. The kid can't even follow a vowel with a consonant, but Navy SEALS can't match her skills at blocking, removing, or concealing any trousers. And the noise...oh, the noise. If it weren't for the fact that a full day of "Push Over Elmo" and "Lets Put Stickers All Over Our Bodies" would send the adults in the house into a very dark place we'd just stay indoors and let her walk around like the white-trash baby she clearly wants to be.
Maybe when it's May I'll ease up on her and let her show off her gams on the local swingset. But as she insists on wearing clothes that quadruple the size of her torso, I'm insisting that she sports some knickers. I'd hate for her to look out of proportion.