Second Xmas

This is the second Christmas for Baby Shiloh, but it is almost like her first. Last year she was exactly three months old and totally oblivious to what was going on around this time. Not so this year, as she insist that every gift that is so  meticulously wrapped belongs to her.She is like a little squirrel hoarding nuts. I stumble upon half opened gifts all over the house. And of course the decorative ornaments that "The Wife" breaks out of storage and proudly and strategically places on the "little tree" are also fair game. A few moments ago Shiloh came in with a couple of them and ran away from me when I had the audacity to attempt to confiscate them. Back to the "little tree", which by the way, is the title of one of our favorite movies. I refer to it as such because a good buddy of mine persuaded me to purchase it as a fund raising vehicle. Proceeds go to the local high school basketball team, a really worthy cause. Except "The Wife" had her designs set on our customary semi-gigantic topiary spectacle that fills up a room like Bill Cosby. You know, the larger than life, bought to impress kind of thing. She finally came around to the whole "spirit of the season" point of view, albeit reluctantly.
I love this time of year and the way she gets so engaged in maintaining our family traditions, some new, some old. There is the mid-day brunch that features an egg souffle that is quite delicious. It is accompanied by croissants, fruit plate, and juice. For the past twelve years it has been an unmitigated success. It was passed down to her by her mother, who died eight years ago, so it remains an important connection to some very special memories. We'll have my kids and some other friends who have become regulars join us. Shiloh will be bounding about, taking it all in. Another tradition is to have the kids in Santa's lap photo op. Shiloh is screaming bloody murder in her photo she took today, just like her brother did at the same age. Can't have any lingering bad thoughts dominate her mind about the Yule Tide season. We may have to assign her as the official gift unwrapper. She has definitely had enough practice at it... MERRY CHRISTMAS!

He Ain't Heavy...

When Shiloh was born last year, her brother Cyrus was ten years old. My initial thought was that a ten year age difference might preclude them from developing a close relationship. He would be too cool to want to hang with his little sister, no matter how cute and precocious she happened to be. He would bemoan the times when asked to keep an eye on her as Mom or Dad were occupied. Who could blame him if he were to cordon himself off in his room, doing big boy stuff, like playing video games, or enthralling himself for countless hours playing the nonsensical Bay Blades. If you haven't seen this game, some genius has made a fortune creating a game based on what we used to do to amuse ourselves when I was little. Only then we used spining tops, or if you were in a pinch, Jacks. The new millenial version has a battle arena and a gizmo to attach to the "spinner" that really gets it going. Shiloh likes to sit by his side and watch the action. Sometimes she will interrupt a particularly intense match by grabbing one of the combatants and running out of the room with it. They also enjoy cavorting in the Master bed, dispersing covers all over the place. It is not uncommon for me to flinch and wince simultaneously from some small, sharply edged toy placed in perfect positon to dig into my back at the most inopportune time. When I scold her for touching things she should't be touching, it is not Mommy that she seeks refuge with, it's Cyrus. "Cyyyyy" was one of her first utterances, after hearing her Mom yell it at the top of her lungs trying to pierce his wall of silence in his bedroom upstairs. What I am learning is that the age difference can be an issue, directly dependant upon the overall affection that we share as a family. When love prevails, it supercedes every other thought a child has. Now if only she felt that way about bigger brother Joe. The fact that he is even taller than her Daddy leaves her baffled as to his place in this family pecking order. She will warm up to him the more time he spends in her presence. He is an adult and working and has a life, so there's not a whole lot of time left over. But until she does get to know and like him better, there's always..."Cyyyyy".

Stinky Fingers...

Okay, it is inevitable, I guess, to talk about something that may not be for the faint of heart, or squeamish of stomach. When doing a running weekly blog about the challenges of raising a toddler at fifty-four years old, it is topic that must be broached at some point. And while that reality is upon me, and I am more than willing to venture down that road, you can probably tell that it is not a path that I am eager to trek. So without furhter avoidance, how can I put this, dealing with soiled diapers has got to be my least favorite part of Fatherhood at Fifty. It gets easier as Shiloh gets older from the visual standpoint. I don't have to scrunch the face and hold my breath. It gets more difficult because now she wants to explore what is going on down there right in the middle of getting her "Diap-ee" changed. And by the way, it is like riding a bike, once you've changed the sheer volume of diapers I have changed over too many years to mention. You fall right back into the grove. Fortunately, I am not old enough to have had to deal with one safety pin in the mouth, while attaching the other to the cloth. Or am I? I seriously don't remember, which can't be a good sign. Complicating matters is her tendency to make a mad dash away from me when I approach her with diaper and wipes in hand. I also had to learn that downward stroke thing that is required with little girls. But all in all, it has not been as bad as I had envisioned. Of course, the stinky fingers part is still a little too much to take, and I'm not talking about Shiloh's either. Hey, I have big hands and long fingers and sometimes it's hard to get them out of the way...

No More Shoots!

We took Shiloh to the Doctor to get the last round of vaccinations. This is always an endeavor that is every bit as anxiety inducing for the parents as it is for the child. At least where Shiloh is concerned. The thought of her having to endure the trauma of a sharp object piercing her thickly muscled thigh can be a bit much, if I focus on it too much. As we are seated in the waiting room, she innocently carries on like she is in the child care area of Magic's 24 Hour Fitness. There is an elaborate farm scene built into the wall, she tries to open the gate to enter the field where the sheep, cows and other animals are painted, playing in the pasture. I take great pains in keeping her from getting too close to the other child close by. The reason, I tell myself, is because she has a cold,and I don't want it to spread,.The real reason is that she has been doing this thing recently where she gets off slapping faces. Her brother's face, my face, her mom's face, it don't matter. She is an equal opportunity face slapper. It can be quite the embarrassment, like on Thanksgiving when she hauled off and smacked my niece, a laid back, mild mannered little girl a few months older. It's one thing to do it to family and get scolded for it. It is an entirely different matter to do it to a kid accompanied by a mother that looks like she may slap back. And then of course, all hell would ensue. Finally her name is called and it's off to the waiting room I. We always seem to get that room. The nurse is a friendly sort, having dealt with Shiloh for over a year now. We go through the obligatory height and weight measurement, with the nurse commenting on the vastness of my baby's head. It's genetic, so I am used to it. She leaves us to wait  for the Doctor. While waiting, we notice a bulletin board with scribbles and pictures and stuff. There are high school age kids who obviously sat in this same room as Shiloh  when they were babies. My wife notices the writing of a very young child and is amused. She points to it, it reads, "No More Shoots", meaning shots. After the Doctor does his check up, he informs us that Shiloh is due for her last round of "Shoots", er, shots. He rattles off the list, Hepatitis, Flu, and a couple of others. Shiloh kind of looks at him like she knows what is about to happen, again. This is not the play area of the Fitness Club. When the friendly nurse returns with her needles and gloves, the fullness of the reality of the situation sets in. She looks at me, extending her arms, begging with her eyes, "No More Shoots". I play the role of the heavy and help hold her down. Panic stricken and tense, she tries to shake the spot, but I won't let her. I grimace as I watch the needles enter my daughter's thigh. I try and comfort her at the same time to take her mind off of what is happening. She is terrified and crying, but handles it like the trooper she is. It is finished, all done, vaccinations complete.Her "baba" (bottle) is just the soothing tonic she needs to calm her nerves. The wife and I look at each other, knowing exactly what is on the others' mind. Thank God, "No More Shoots".

SNAKES, SNAILS...NOT!

Sometimes, I don't know if the Lord blessed me or cursed me as far as children are concerned. "Happy is the man whose quiver is full", has long been a biblical passage that spoke to me in a personal and direct way. It seemed like my destiny was going to be that of the man that produced nothing but boys. Rough and tumble, get in a fight at the drop of the hat boys. Lover not fighter boys, artistically inclined, television star type boys. You name it, and I had it, somewhere down in the quiver. Now don't get me wrong, I have long held the belief that boys would be a whole lot less stress to raise. Friends of mine that had nothing but girls, used to tell me how lucky I was. I didn't suffer like they did. I wouldn't have the sleepless nights worrying about the potential harms way situations that would arise. All I had to do with the dudes was to make sure they had the proper amount of direction, discipline, and basketball training, and they'd be good to go. It has worked like a charm too. Two older sons having attended my college alma mater on basketball scholarships. The next two are currently enrolled in school, and are also playing ball. The caboose end guy showing the promise to do the same, if not more, than his older brothers.
Enter Shiloh, the last of the Mohican's (actually her mother is Pawnee). She is the epitome of daintiness. My entry for this week's blog was to be based on my travels for work, and how it impacts Fatherhood at Fifty. But as I write this, Shiloh is walking around the den with one of the Pawnee's decorative wrist bangles adorning each elbow. One is a patterned, pink plastic number, the other identical, except it is gold. She constantly drapes one of the wife's purses, or any facsimile thereof, over her shoulders like she is on her way to Rodeo Drive. She is particularly fond of the Barbie phone that my granddaughter let her have. Push a button and some disgusting recorded message about "going to the concert with Theresa" comes on. As for the discipline, I tell her just now in a firm voice, not to push the buttons on the satellite receiver. Her feelings get hurt and she saunters over and slaps me on my hand as I type on the keyboard. So much for that. When she picks up her food, it is done in the fastidious manner that one would expect of a tea sipper in the court of King Louis, the whatever. Two fingers, very precise, index and thumb, with the other three extended outward. I'm absolutely positive Shiloh will benefit greatly from the direction, and my feeble attempts at discipline. As far as the basketball training goes, she may be way too cute for that nonsense...

NO OKIE DOKE

So Shiloh was about to go on a quick trip with her mom and the neighbor lady. I was given the option of keeping her at home with me, or getting some quiet time so I could do some work. It's not that I can't get work done while she is here. I spend a lot of time researching and writing, spending many hours per day on my computer. For the most part, she allows me to become somewhat immersed in what I am doing. Invariably those moments arise when she wants to get involved with my livelihood. Whatever papers are strewn about my desk suddenly become airborne, dispersed around me like the feathers in the grand finale in the movie True Romance. And then there is her love affair with the keyboard. She will shoehorn herself between my knees and the desk flap where the keyboard lay. She is ever observant, and has the general idea that while the keyboard is indeed important, it is the mouse that makes everything go. I'll lift her from the danger zone, give her a peck on the cheek, then plop her down in the midst of her assorted toys and gizmos. My concentration will be at its zenith, only to be interrupted by the sounds of one of those seldom viewed channels on TV. The ones where they give you the instructions as to how use the various functions that I never use anyway. This can only mean one thing, Shiloh is in what I have termed "Remote Control Heaven". We have tried the bait and switch manuever, giving her an old, battery free remote. She ain't falling for no okie doke, banana in the tailpipe though, recognizing right away that she has been bamboozled. It is an intersting dilemma to deal with. Even when she is  not here, and the oportunity has presented itself for me to hunker down and get some work done, I am still writing about her not being here. Thereby, not  getting any work done...

JerseyChaser.com

JerseyChaser.com

CHERISH THE MOMENT

This has been  a rough past few days. On Saturday, I found out a good friend had a stroke, and is barely hanging on while being placed on Life Support. Another friend has been camped out in an area hospital while her mother tries to deal with aggressive chemotherapy treatments. On Sunday, the congregation gathered around my Pastor's wife to offer our support at the news that her mother had just died while the church service was still in session. And the final piece of the mortality reminder, my friend and contemporary, Maurice Lucas, has died of bladder cancer at 58 years old.
I'm 54 years old, with a daughter who just celebrated her first birthday. I constantly do the mathematical exercise in my head of how old I'll be when she reaches certain milestones. When she graduates elementary school I'll be 64. At the middle school culmination, I'll be 67. I'll be the 70 year old grandfatherly looking dude in the audience at her high school graduation. And when she flings her college graduate cap in the air, I'll be 74. Unless she decides to take her time and go on that 6 or 7 year plan.
The saving grace for me is that I have been conditioned over the past few years to take it one day at a time. I can't get caught up projecting into the future and getting myself all worked up. But when you have a mind like I do, that is no easy chore. Thoughts of all the things healthwise that could wrong can easily dominate my consciousness. I am on the first day of a 10 day cleanse, and this morning the thought occurred that it may be too extreme for my system. Never mind that I have done this same cleanse 4 or 5 times over the past couple of years and have felt the better for it each time. I'll snap out of my malaise, I always do. I'll keep hitting the gym 6 times a week, ride my bike through the steep, hill ladened neighborhood surrounding my home, and play tennis and basketball with my other kids. I will also cherish this moment within this day, and thank my God that I've been entrusted with the enormous responsibility of nurturing this beautiful gift...

Fatherhood at Fifty: MY SANCTUARY...

Fatherhood at Fifty: MY SANCTUARY...: "Today was a nice, cool, chill out day for me and Shiloh. That consisted of taking another trip to the Magic Johnson 24 Hour Fitness Center. ..."

MY SANCTUARY...

Today was a nice, cool, chill out day for me and Shiloh. That consisted of taking another trip to the Magic Johnson 24 Hour Fitness Center. Shiloh liked it a lot better her second time around. More kids her size and her age to bop around with. After some mid morning prowler drama upon our arrival home, I needed to just decompress. Nothing like a steady diet of law enforcement and insurance adjusting to make you want to enjoy one of those Calgon take me away moments. Instead of the long soak in the tub with the bubbles, scented candles, and a long stemmed glass filled to the brim, I resorted to propping myself down in front of the PC and hitting up Youtube. I love the easy access to music these days. It's not like when I was a kid and you had to manually place the record player arm on the desired cut. I always wound up scratching the vinly album while simultaneously damaging the "needle" used for transmitting the music. Isn't it crazy that I find the need to explain how that outdated contraption works? There may be young teens out there that haven't a clue as to what I am describing. Things are so much more convenient nowadays. In fact, when you ask young people to identify their favorite songs on a particular CD, they tell you the number of the selection rather than the tiltle. One of Shiloh and my favorite ways to spend time together is listening to music. She gets this glint in her eyes and starts bounding up and down. Put on Cameo's "Word Up" and it's automatic "party over here." Recently I have been in a Rock and Roll mood. That may be a misnomer because I like a variety of different sounds. From Nirvanna to Steely Dan, to one of my all timers, Joni Mitchell. Something about the hauntingly melodic, octave alternating style of hers. And the lyrics these old time song writers come up with.
Steely Dan;        
You been telling me you're a genius since you were seventeen.
All the time I've known you
I still don't know what you mean.
The weekend at the college didn't turn out like you planned
The things that pass for knowledge I can't understand.
And, of course, Joni;
Late last night I heard that screen door slam
A Big Yellow Taxi came and took away my old man.

Everytime that doggone screen door slams, something happens to put a damper on Joni's happiness. A Big Yellow Tractor does a number on the house and land. She watches the taxi take away her old man, again.
Will Shiloh appreciate any of this later in her life. I read the comment section on Youtube. It's filled with nice little tidbits that supplement my listening experience. For example, Mick Jagger, Paul and Linda McCarthy sing the background on Carly Simon's You're So Vain. There's also comments about what those old songs represent for some of the listeners. I've read countless times how a certain song reminds someone of their Father. They remember their Dad sitting in his favorite chair, enjoying his music. I've been accused of not broadening my musical taste at times. That I like to spend too much time reflecting, with some old school Jazz, or Rock or R&B as the backdrop. That's okay. Maybe my little Girlie Girl will harken back on these days and have a vague recollection of her and her old man spending our afternoons together. Music will be the cornerstone that connects her world with mine. Even after they pave paradise, and put up a parking lot.

IDIOSYNCRASIES

It can be so interesting watching a one year old. They start developing characteristics, habits and mannerisms that are peculiar to them. My daughter Shiloh for instance, does this thing where she crimples her nose and starts pushing air through her nostrils, like really hard. All the while she is doing this, she gets this bizzare frown on her face. This being the Halloween season, we have taken to calling her Chucky, as in the doll from the Child's Play movies. That's one of the many positives about Fatherhood at Fifty, the appreciation for the minutia. At previous stages of parenthood, there was a tendency on my part to be preoccupied with me. What was happening in my life, issues to be dealt with as they pertained to me, feelings to be navigated through, that affected me. But for some strange inexplicable reason, I am enthralled by my daughter's "Chucky face" antics.With my theatrical background, I've envisioned doing a Shiloh/Chucky video vignette. Maybe even post it on Youtube. Get a close up shot of her going through her crimpled nose routine and the labored breathing through the flared nostrils, then cut to some grisly mass murder scene staged in the house somewhere. We'd have to be really careful with the ketchup for blood mixture. One drop spilled on the sofa or floor and it's curtains for real. Instead of her lethal weapon of choice being some faux knife or ax, I would have her wielding the wooden ruler she likes to amble around with. After she performs the dastardly deed on her intended victims, she could then take their measurements, in case they are needed for some reason in the future. Another great shot would be to have her scaling the stairs, deadly ruler in hand. I would shoot this from an overhead angle, cajoling her to make the "Chucky face" as she ascends. This would be a pretty simple task, she seems to get a kick out of us laughing hysterically every time she does it. The only challenge is I have to keep doing the "Chucky face" over and over, until it registers that this is what I want her to do. My mucous is a lot looser than hers. We would then cut to a shot of her older brother Cyrus screaming, with a terrified look on his face. She gets tickled  to pieces when he does stuff like this with her, so the struggle would be to get her to stay in character.
My biggest concern is how she'll react to it all later in her life, at the age of six or seven. Will she be really pissed off at her Dad for making fun of her like that? Of course I would emphasize that we weren't laughing at her, but laughing with her. Somehow I'm sure she won't buy that. I suppose some memories are better left as just that, memories. I certainly wouldn't want some of my grosser habits immortalized. But dog gone it, it's just so friggin' cute. What the hey, places everyone. Shiloh/Chucky, scene one, take  one, and...action!

BABY STEPS

     Some of these "Fish Story-like" tales of early childhood development can really put the pressure on Daddy. Specifically, I keep hearing these reports of toddlers walking at earlier and earlier ages. One parent bragged to me that 9 months was the time that her daughter was up and at 'em. Another made the unbelievable assertion that her boy was fully upwardly mobile at 7 months. What's next, babies Moonwalking out of the womb and exchanging fist pounds with the Doctor? Or maybe even being still ensconced in the amniotic sac, but clearly visible on the ultra-sound, teaching all who watch and care to learn how to Dougie?
     Which leads me to my own little bundle of precociousness, scooting around on all fours, Shiloh. She had her first birthday a couple of weeks ago. I have been working with her diligently, giving the proper positive encouragement and inducements. I guess you could say I have been her private personal trainer when it comes to walking. I have nearly neutered myself with the ultra high pitched pleadings, "come on girlie girl, you can do it girlie girl." In case you didn't notice, my pet name for her is "girlie girl". She seems to take much amusement in watching her Mother and I go through all the histrionics, standing on her own between the two of us beckoning like idiots. She then lowers herself into a squat that would make a Latino street-corner O.G. proud. Ultimately it's back on all fours, as she scoots away from us to find something or someone else a little more interesting.
     Then it happened without the usual prompting from us. She went from propping herself up on the circular table in the den, to taking three tiny, little "baby steps". You would've thought our favorite team had won the big game on a last second shot. The pure elation registered on our faces was palpable. This was the beginning all right, the beginning of the end. The end of that initial stage of life before your kid becomes homo erectus. There is something endearing about watching Shiloh scoot. She is the quickest little scooter that I have ever seen, a real flesh and blood Soap Box Derby race car in action. She gets going in one direction and quickly picks up incredible rates of speed. Like zero to sixty in three point five seconds. I remember those old television shows back in the 60's would have actual crawling baby race segments. Shiloh would definitely be the Secretariat of the baby racers, hands down. Leave the rest of them stranded at the gate, choking on her dust.
     For now she's kind of stuck on those three baby steps. That's her limit, one, two, three, drop. Once she drops, she's back into full scoot mode. And I am really okay with it. After all, she'll start walking full time, then before you know it she'll be ready for school. Then it's high school and dates and proms and dudes showing up at the house and blowing their car horns from the street, screaming "Shiloh, you ready yet?". Man, I am soooo cool with those three baby steps for now...slow down, girlie girl.

THE WORKOUT

     Today being Daddy/Daughter Day throughout this great land of ours presented the perfect opportunity to introduce Shiloh Johnson to Magic Johnson. Now before you loquacious, taletelling types jump to conclusions, chill out and let me explain. I workout 5 to 6 days a week at a fitness club owned by the former Laker Hall of Famer. It is a great place to get your lift on. Terrific panoramic view of the Westside of the city, including beach and airport. At the top of every stairwell, there is a larger than lifesize poster of Magic. Lifting weights in one shot smiling. Shooting hoops in another, smiling. Even adorned with silk robe and boxing gloves, and of course, smiling. Hey, if I had the success he's had in business and as an athlete, I'd be smiling too. Even the life changing HIV situation was handled with the aplomb that only Magic could muster. He is truly amazing. {Hold up a minute, it's Shiloh's time to bang on my computer keys, and my time to repeat "NO", over and over again and hope she loses interest. Good, she found some semi-important document to mangle}. Where was I, right, Magic's 24 Hour Fitness. First time I met Magic, we were at the center jump circle at Pauley Pavillion before his rookie year. He was all of 19 years old and had captured the attention of the sporting world, we NBAers included. After I received thunderous applause when I was introduced at the start of the charity game, he said to me, "this is your city". I prophetically retorted, "if you play like you did in college, it'll be your city." How right I was.
     But I digress, I mean seriously digress,which becomes more exciting the older you get. Anywho (Seattle people say that), Shiloh and I were headed for the workout. Talk about your multi-tasking. First, figuring out these new fangled car seats, you need a crash course in bio-engineering. I got it right, for the most part. Then, trying to juggle my workout bag, Shiloh's diaper bag, and oh yeah, Shiloh, was no easy feat. Throw in some rain slickened stairs leading to the driveway, and I was one misstep away from slipping into disaster. Once parked at the Health Club, I had to repeat the bags plus Shiloh prestidigitation. Oops, her knit hat bites the dust and falls on the dampened asphalt. As I slide it back on her head, I say to myself, "what Mommie doesn't know won't hurt her."
      As I enter the club, I have to check-in using the new fingerprint technology. Am I entering Langley, or is this Magic's 24? I am greeted by the always ebullient Ebony from behind the counter. Her friendly smile and positive attitude as consistent as death and taxes. She then utters that question in the midst of her statement that makes me cower, "look at Mr. Johnson, babysitting. Is this your Granddaughter?" Ouch. Touche. All that. "No, this is my daughter." In eye roll midstream she asks her name and I tell her. So it's off to Kid's Club for Shiloh, and off to my futile attempt to stave off the gravitational inevitability for Daddy. Did my 40 minutes of cardio on the  low seated stationary bike, or "Big Wheel", as the younger guys call it. Next, got in my customary lift on the rope extension machine. Just my luck, one of the over inflated exercise balls was available and I was in crunch heaven. Just a little over an hour and it was time to hit the pool, and then a steam and shower. Alas, it was not to be, for at that very moment, an ominous voice blared from the intercom, it was Ebony the Ebullient,  "Mar-kweese Johnson, please report to the Kids Club. I dare not look anyone in the eye as I unobtrusively made my way toward the stairwell. A bunch of wisenheimers that would love to have a little fun at my expense populate the second floor. I acknowledged pugilistic Magic and headed down the stairs. I got to the Kid's Club, unscathed, to find Shiloh sitting in the caretaker's lap, one nearly evaporated tear on the left side of her face. She lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw me, reached out her arms. Time to blow this popsicle stand...

Year One

The jokes, the rolling of the eyes and just overall looks of disbelief. What misdeed has been carried out that would elicit such responses? What is it that you could be guilty of that would cause folks to stare at you with such wide eyed wonder? Confessed some heinous crime against humanity (some equate it as such), or maybe even the polar opposite extreme of having been touched by the Holy Ghost and proclaimed it my duty to preach the Gospel to the disenchanted of the World, starting with the Tea Baggers. Okay, maybe that is a little too far fetched, but you get the idea. Dealing with Fatherhood at Fifty is fraught with its own unique set of challenges. Starting with my own questions of whether or not my health and longevity will hold up adequately.
   Shiloh became a one year old a few days ago.She is the essence of beauty, a complete source of joy. But this deal ain't for everybody. It takes a level of commitment and more importantly, energy, that I thought was long dormat, never to be awakened. Ever again. But it is what it is, and what it is is, another opportunity. When I was told it was blessing before she arrived, there was a little bit of scoffing. Since she has been here, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am the lucky one. Things happen how they are supposed to and this little Angel is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received in my life. So, despite the aches and pains that come from being my age, despite the soiled diaper changes(wish I could outsource that),and possessing the roving acumen of one of those little energizer bunnies, it has been a blast. Hard work, mind you, but a blast nonetheless.
     Funny moment: Why did Shiloh get super agitated when I tried to put on purple sweat pants to go with her pink onesy top. She kept reaching for the still damp pink pants that matched the onesy top. When I pulled her away from them, she looked at me like my fashion sense was totally out of kilter. This at one, what will the future hold? I'll keep you posted...