Living in a tourist town like we do, you never know what you might see when you look out of your window. (My personal favorite was the weekend there was a serendipitous pairing of the Pride in the Pines festival and the Pine Country Rodeo, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase “ride ‘em, Cowboy.”) Bearing that in mind, if, sometime during the next few weeks, you should happen to look out of your window and see a crazed, scissor-wielding woman chasing an unkempt child down the street, don’t worry: it’s just the serendipitous pairing of my daughter, Clementine, and laundry day.
Before you get too worried, let me tell you all of the good things that the above scenario reveals. For one, it shows that Clementine is a very loyal person: once she makes a commitment, she will do whatever it takes to see that commitment through, whether that means going outside in all kinds of weather to feed her pet rabbit or staying up late to finish a birthday present. Or even, sometimes, wearing the same shirt for five days in a row.
And, before you ask: no, it’s not a sports thing; I wish it were. I could understand, and even tolerate it if she was refusing to change her lucky t-shirt as long as the Suns were in the playoffs or something (in fact, I wish she had worn the same shirt the whole time the Suns were in the playoffs this summer, so that I could’ve mailed that stinky, stinky shirt to a certain referee). No, for her it is simply a matter of love: she simply loves the shirt she’s wearing so much she can’t stand the thought of parting with it even for washing.
This has led to some eye-opening (and sinus-clearing) mornings at our house. What usually happens is that Clementine will make her appearance in the kitchen for breakfast, wearing–surprise, surprise!–the same shirt she had on the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that. (I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes.) She is then directed to “put on another shirt,” to which she replies something along the lines of “I don’t have any other shirts,” (my favorite variation being “I literally don’t have any other shirts,” which always prompts me to reply “I literally don’t believe you know the meaning of that word”). A search is then executed, whereupon hundreds (no, not literally) of shirts are discovered scattered about her room, one of which she is directed to pick out and put on. At which point the fun really starts.
Some days she goes back into her room for a few minutes, only to emerge wearing the exact same shirt she had on before (this has actually been known to work: like I said, sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake). Some days she comes out in a new shirt, but then circles back around the house after she has “left” for school to surreptitiously change back into Ol’ Stinky. And once, in a preview of the high school years, she tucked the filthy favorite into her book bag and did a quick change in the school bathroom both before, and after, school. Which brings us to the crazed, scissor-wielding maniac. (That would be me.)
Through the years I have found that, discipline-wise, nothing works quite so well as crazy. Nothing can produces consistent results like apparent insanity; while time outs may work for some kids, and losing privileges for others, I have yet to meet the child whose bad behavior didn’t immediately cease in the presence of an adult who started speaking in tongues.
Or, in my case, pulled out a pair of scissors and started chopping an offending t-shirt into little pieces while they were still wearing it.