It appears that, at the esteemed age of 22 months, the Mighty has developed an aversion to pants.
It doesn’t matter what kind of pants she’s wearing, they’re coming off.
This morning, Quinn was running around in between the kitchen and the dining room, pushing a play stroller (which is empty, usually because one of the girls has unceremoniously thrown the baby doll that belongs in it into a corner. On its head. Remind me to be careful if we ever have more kids). All of a sudden, she stopped in her little toddler tracks, made this bizarre, exasperated grunting sound: “Ahggnnh!” and crouched, struggling with her pajama pants until they were lying on a heap on the tiled floor. And off she went, happy, and, I guess, enjoying the feel of fresh air on the backs of her knees. Meanwhile, SK and I were wandering around the house in long-sleeved t-shirts and heavy pants because it was so chilly in the house today.
I don’t know what it is, but she really, really hates pants. And it’s okay, because she’s 22 months and she’s just a toddler and she’s just ambling about the house and if she feels like running around in her diaper, well, why shouldn’t she? It’s not like she’s going to always be an age where it’s permissible to run around without pants.
Just as long as she’s moved out of the phase by the time she starts high school. Or else I expect we’ll be spending a lot of time sitting in the office of her guidance counselor.