This is the power a pair of tights can exert over my daughter: the mere sight of them being lifted out of a drawer causes her to shriek, cover her face with tiny hands and wail, "No, no, no, no!" Bring the tights a little closer and she'll actually cower, her face contorted in panic and grief. "No, Mommy, no!" she cries, fat tears puddling on her cheeks. Mind you, we're talking about tights here, extra-long socks basically, not poison, wild animals, fire, or even cauliflower. Tights. She refuses to wear them, touch them, or even gaze upon them. She is a miniature fashionista at the age of twenty-one months.

One of my earliest memories involves throwing a cataclysmic temper tantrum over a pair of pointy red sneakers that my mother brought home from the local discount store. I screamed, cried, stomped, and flatly refused to put anything so hideous on my feet. I didn't want ugly girly sneakers; I wanted a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor's just like the ones my big brother wore. Naturally, my mom hoped to see me prancing about in something a little more feminine. But I hated those pointy red boats with all of the passion I could muster, sobbing until my stomach hurt and my eyes burned. I couldn't have been more than five years old, yet already displayed very definite taste in shoes and in a manner worthy of the stage. Which is why I'm not at all surprised to be raising a little drama queen of my own. Still, twenty-one months -- Couldn't she have waited another year or two to join the style police?

I was never one of those women who entertained fantasies of dressing my baby girl up in flounces and frills, crinolines and lace. I didn't like wearing that stuff myself, finding it itchy and bothersome and not terribly conducive to climbing, chasing or hiding. Even today I'm uncomfortable in clothes that require me to sit a certain way or walk with too dainty a gait. I'm a tomboy, not a cupcake, and figured any daughter I might have would probably be the same. Yet I never imagined that a child who still wears diapers and can't even pronounce the word "runway" would be so finicky about her attire. She actually chooses her own footwear, sometimes changing shoes several times over the course of a day. And she doesn't play favorites - the same Nikes that were beloved today are very likely to be reviled tomorrow, and woe to us when we announce that her dragon-embroidered slippers are a bad choice for a visit to the playground. Her eyes fill with tears and her lip trembles. Not since Imelda Marcos has a woman felt such pain to be parted from her shoes! Her father and I have the good sense to find this behavior not just puzzling but terrifying, signaling as it does an intensely melodramatic adolescence to come. We're already looking at schools that require uniforms.

I know what you're thinking: this is your punishment for torturing your own mother. The chickens have come home to roost and you reap what you sow and all those other painfully irritating and truthful clich?s that are hurled at first-time parents. Fair enough, but can anyone explain how on earth a baby gets to be so opinionated? The blame can't be laid on peer pressure or the media. Olivia is not taking fashion tips from the Wiggles or Clifford the Big Red Dog. And if she were aching to emulate the other toddler girls, she'd consent to having the occasional ribbon affixed to her head. Instead she's a rebel, preferring her cheetah pants and sequined t-shirts to the more traditional and demure ruffled dresses that grandmas everywhere yearn to see featured in the annual family portrait. Rather than a lacy bonnet, she wears my old Temple University ball cap-backward - with a faux-fur trimmed jacket worthy of a Gabor sister. Just under three feet tall, she's the imperious mistress of her own closet, a regular diaper diva.

Once you get past the basics, parenting seems to be largely about choosing your battles. As long as our daughter is happy, healthy, and not too much of a raging savage, we're content to let her wear any wretched thing she pleases. It's just a shame that they don't award an Oscar for Best Performance While Being Made To Endure A Scratchy Sweater. Olivia would be a shoo-in.