The Kidling’s ability to observe, synthesize, demonstrate, practice, and master new concepts never ceases to amaze me. A little sponge, she learns
especially even the things I wish she would not. Still, some new tasks and concepts are difficult for my wee Einstein. The things she picks up with ease and those with which she struggles are neither predictable nor classifiable. She adds new vocabulary to her repertoire with astonishing ease, yet cannot consistently distinguish her “M”s from her “N”s. She skips like an old pro, but is still struggling with the ever-elusive cartwheel.
Perhaps the funniest of Alice’s struggles is dressing herself. Now, I don’t mean The Kidling can’t put on her socks, shoes, pants, or sweaters herself. She even has buttoning under control. I mean, seriously. Buttons are hard. But they are no match for The Kidling.
Though she may have a seemingly inexplicable phobia of cardigans as an adult.
But The Kidling has met her match with her undergarments. Underwear, underwears, undies, unders… No matter what name we give this formidable foe, they present a challenge. And because The Kidling does dress herself every morning, The Parents often aren’t aware until bathtime that she has been foiled, yet again, by that tiny swath of cotton. On that final step before sweet, sweet freedom to play to her heart’s content in the tub, the ever-present adversary presents itself with a baggy front and a too tight back, with bows on the inside and tags on the outside and, my personal favorite, with one butt cheek entirely exposed because she squeezed her tiny little body into a leghole and has one leg through the waist.
But The Parents remain steadfast that The Kidling needs to get this figured out. We are more than happy to help with those tricky undergarments whose printed-on tags have since faded, but otherwise, The Kidling is on her own to figure out which way is up. Last night before bed, when Alice was getting into her jammies, she was unconvinced of her ability to conquer the panty puzzle. I suggested that she hold them up and try to figure out which way they needed to go, then go ahead and put them on. If, after trying and testing, they were on crooked (or backwards, or sideways), then I promised my assistance.
But she didn’t need my help. Why? She had figured out the answer to the underwear quandary. She had learned a universal truth, and told me so, declaring the answer to be simple: “My labia is smaller than my bum.”