When I found out during my first pregnancy that I was going to have a girl, I was excited because that meant I would have a babysitter for all my other minions. But also because anyone who has walked through a department store at some point in their lives knows that girls clothes are on a whole other level than boys. You could spend the working annual budget of a small country on girls clothes, shoes, and accessories. Twice that if you have Amazon Prime. Not that you need to, because every single person you know, particularly moms whose babies are in kindergarten, single women, and moms of boys, will bring baby clothes to every single baby shower you have. Girl’s clothes are addictive. And you have these great visions in your head of frilly bows, coordinating jewelry, and daily photo shoots. Don’t get me started on what happens if you are lucky enough to get two girls in a row because MATCHING! It’s a dream come true.

Except I am here to throw rain on your parade. Or more accurately, ketchup on your perfectly costumed child.

It starts innocently enough. They come into this world as a limp noodle, a blank canvas, a passive baby doll that you can’t wait to dress up in that first dress. But give it a couple of weeks, or days, and hours, and you’ll hit your first snag. You’ll get them into that perfect outfit, with matching bow, socks, and miniature high heels they desperately needed even though they won’t be walking until they’ve grown two sizes, and you’ll stick them in their car seat to go showcase them to the world, and bam. Blowout. No diaper on this earth has been invented that can contain a truly determined and gassy baby, and you now have an adorable coordinated outfit to scrub with special baby soap that cost you the same as a night out on the town. And that hopefully you bought two of because lucky you, you get to scrub the car seat cover and tiny shoes too!

But you do not despair. You have a whole closet full of adorable garments just waiting for your child to try on, half of which you probably won’t get the tags off of before they put on ten pounds and move up two sizes. So you change that baby and make her the belle of the ball once more. And then you pick her up and walk to the door just in time for her to regurgitate her lunch with great force all over you, herself, and your brand new rug. So you change the baby; start your third load of laundry this morning; scrub the carpet; order a couple more tubs of baby soap on Amazon, because you will never actually get out of the house to visit a store, and go scrounge in your closet for a semi-clean pair of sweatpants because your baby’s clothes don’t fit you.

I know some pretty determined women who manage to keep their babies looking like runway models despite the unearthly amounts of bodily fluids involved in parenting, but by my third child we were happy if we got the baby changed from pajamas to cleaner pajamas by lunch time, and if we could find a pair of matching socks on Sundays we were pretty well satisfied with ourselves.

Then we hit the delightful phase where your baby becomes a little person who babbles and smiles and reacts and moves. A lot. Some of my babies had their own personal imaginary treadmill and it made me tired just watching their arms and legs flailing like motorized spiders. Then dressing the baby gets fun. Experienced parents might call this the “Dress the octopus” phase. You can practice, if you haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing it yet, by trying to diaper and clothe a small energetic chihuahua. Make sure to use baby clothes with approximately 526 snaps to get the full effect. Try to get fast enough to do five changes in ten minutes and you’ll be ready for diaper changes.

The baby will then approach toddlerhood, and things get really interesting. Besides learning how to take off their clothes much faster than you can put them back on your chihuahua, they develop these terrible inclinations called “Opinions”. You may have fantasies of getting them into that handsome checkered shirt and slacks with matching loafers, but they have lately developed an aversion to the color orange, and they only like shorts because it’s too hot to go out in pants in twenty degree weather. And they can only wear their sister’s thigh high bright pink boots that are two sizes too big with every outfit because that’s what’s in fashion at preschool right now. And you may, in desperation to get out the door, acquiesce to their demands, get them buckled, and then spend the next twenty minutes of your drive listening to an epic temper tantrum because they just remembered that today they really wanted to wear their favorite Star Wars t-shirt that they wore three days already this week and is currently lost somewhere at the bottom of one of the laundry hampers sitting in a mountain next to your washer.

Then there are the days you’re just begging them to wear pants because they have decided they really want to attend school as a stripper ballerina.

I could regale you with the fun changes that come once they hit elementary school (and/or discover My Little Pony) and realize there’s a whole fashion industry, but you can probably imagine to better effect.