It technically isn't hurricane season. But you wouldn't always know it around here.
Yesterday we were invited to visit a friend for a play group of sorts. 4 moms and 7 children congregated in the basement playroom of one of our friend's homes. Annie, Maddie and friend Jane immediate stripped down to their underwear and put on fancy dress-up clothes. For the next 100 minutes, toys were dumped out, strewn about, mixed up, thrown, and fought over; you know- how 2 and 3-year-olds play.
Finally it was time to clean up and get ready to go. I started helping pick up toys and found Annie and Maddie's clothes. I grabbed the closest child (who happened to be Annie) and told her it was time to put her clothes back on. She tried running away. And running away again. The storm broke and she went limp and fell to the floor. The wailing began and the limbs began waving wildly in an effort to elude my grip. I stripped her of her borrowed finery and the howling began in earnest. She wouldn't keep her legs in her pants, she was trying to hit me, she was screaming how mean I was.
There were 3 other moms there watching. And cleaning up all the mess while I tried to calm and dress my daughter.
Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep calm. Put your darn clothes on! Keep calm.
Once all the toys were cleaned up, I had finally wrestled Annie into the clothes she arrived in. The storm of her wrath had mostly subsided, but her lower lip was still sticking out and she wouldn't look at me. Then I was able to get Maddie into her clothes with a lot more cooperation. Thank goodness.
But our adventure was not yet finished. We still had to get upstairs, put our boots and coats on and then get buckled into our seats. Annie was still limp and giving me the silent treatment.
I was very glad to finally make our adieux and escape.