If the garment comes in one piece and goes on my baby, it’s a onesie. I’ve heard other terms tossed around, but I only acknowledge “onesie.” Sleeping onesie. Active onesie. Chain-mail onesie. As I typed this, my daughter probably outgrew all of hers.
I currently outweigh my daughter by 260 lbs. Basically. a UFC heavyweight fighter holding my daughter weigh as much as I do. Except my daughter doesn’t need a buff and brawny gentleman to get me to submit in the clothes-changing ring. She takes me down all by herself.
My daughter generates most of her strength from her legs. She works then together and apart, combining brute chubby baby force with slippery leg bends to keep each leg from going in the onesie. Sometimes she puts her feet into her mouth and stares at the ceiling. I believe this move is designed to taunt me. Her arm attacks are crude but effective; she locks her arms at the elbows and you have to hook the sleeves over them like a sadistic carny’s losing game.
The Wife clothes our child and she emerges a smiling cherub. Me? The very stereotype of Dressed by Daddy.