Getting dressed is now an event.
I know where we went wrong. It was the day we gave her a say. The day we asked her what she wanted to wear. It was a turning point in the war, and there was no going back.
From that day forward, pants were outlawed in her little town. It had to be a dress. And it had to twirl. Even pajamas had to fit this requirement. Suddenly, we had a dresser full of the obsolete. Pants. Jeans. Shorts. Anything with legs. The only garments Dad knew how to match were rendered useless.
I am no longer in charge here. My job is to pay for things and stay out of the way. Pinkalicious has claimed the Iron Throne. And Winter is coming.