I really wanted to take a photo for this post, but well . . . I have some mercy.
On Tuesday at ECFE, one lovely, bright, young mother I have known forever shared how her Preschooler B is determined to dress himself. If she so much as uses her pinkie to unroll the back of his pants which have gotten caught, he has to start over. “Back to naked,” she said.
“Oh, you poor, poor dear,” I thought self-righteously to myself. “You’ve got a strong-willed one on your hands with B. That’s going to be a problem.”
It was as though I had not met Toddler D. As though I had forgotten the climbing of the refrigerator. The Vaseline in his hair. The baking of the birthday cake.
For the next day, Brent went in to get him in the morning and said, “You have to come see this.” And there Toddler D was . . . in all his naked glory. No pajamas. No diaper. Had Preschooler B instructed him? I shall never know.
So this is the new trick: getting naked. So far we haven’t had any “diaper accidents,” but I fear it is only a matter of time and — frankly — I hate to even bring it up because it’s like I am tempting fate . . . which you know I don’t believe.
Knock on wood.