In Which I Fail At Parenting. And Ninja Skills.

So Emily has this one pajama outfit. It was handed down to us by a friend. The pants are pink with large blue, white and light pink polka-dots and the top is pink sleeves with a huge smiling Minnie Mouse on it. She LOVES these pajamas. And I allow her that love, because her pajamas and her underwear are really the only place I don't mind characters splashed around like nobodies business.

Well, she outgrew these pajamas about, oh, a year ago. But she continues to wear them. They get washed constantly because she'll put them on. She doesn't care that the shirt doesn't even go down to her belly button anymore, let alone provide any actual belly coverage. The pants are forced up and pretty much sausage her thighs, with the bottom of the pant legs coming to right beneath her shins. The amount of growing she has done in the last year is pretty amazing. Anyway.

I weed out clothing when I do laundry. When her clothes are fresh out of the drier and I'm folding/hanging and putting them away, I separate what doesn't fit anymore and what could probably get a few more wears out of them. There is a stack that sits on top of her rubbermaid underwear/socks/undershirts drawer set and when the stack is too tall to stand without leaning, I take it to the Awesome Neighbors house because they have a daughter who's about ten months younger than Emily, and of a much smaller build. So when Emily is bursting out of seams, their daughter gets the clothes which, more often than not, have a few weeks of bagginess to them. It works rather well actually.

Anyway. The Minnie pajamas have made it to the stack about six times. And every time they make it to the stack, Emily FLIPS HER SHIT. She grabs them, toppling the stack over and clutches them to her chest with angry defiance. I let her win, because there's part of me that thinks it's endearing that this particular pair of pajamas is her favorite. Because she has no particular connection to Minnie Mouse. Emily is all about the princesses, Tinkerbell, and Hannah Montana. However, the last time I saw her in the pajamas I decided that it is Time For Them To Go. I figured out though, that if she ever saw the neighbor's daughter in them that Emily would have her heart broken. Since the pajamas are now very worn, I decided to just toss them. Which I am normally against. But I don't want her to see them at Goodwill, or on the Awesome Neighbor's daughter, or anywhere else on anyone else in any way, shape, or form.

So I put them in the trash can while she's outside playing, under a carton of milk and a cardboard box. I glance at The Girlfriend and whisper "don't tell her!" and walk away, mission accomplished.

A few hours later, which happened to be about twenty minutes ago, The Girlfriend and I are sitting on the couch, innocently watching some TV while Emily takes care of her dinner dishes when Emily walks up to me with a handful of clothing. Her arm is stuck straight out and her eyebrows are hitting my ceiling as she looks at me like, um, HELLO? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? BECAUSE I DO!

I calmly say, hey kid, what's up?

And she responds "Um, Mom? These were in the trash. Did you know that? Because they were because I just pulled them out."

I say, well, um, I must've-

to get interrupted with "They're my favorite Momma, don't DROP THEM AGAIN BECAUSE I LOVE THEM BECAUSE THEY'RE MY FAVORITE."

And she walks away, shaking her head at her mother's apparent stupidity and puts them in the fold pile on top of the drier.

Yeah. Fail.