The other morning, after Squirts ate his breakfast, I set his clothes out and told him it was time to get dressed while I went to get ready for the day. About 30 minutes later, I returned to the living room and – Squirts was dressed. Shirt, underwear, shorts and socks! Hallelujah!
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t the first time that’s happened. But no matter how many times it does, I’m still haunted by the days we battled to get the boy dressed every day. Here’s how the playback of those days runs on the screen in my mind, backed by the flashing lights and music of the Little Einstein’s:
While the child is distracted by educational TV, we strategically lay out a clean set of clothes for easy reach; then with ninja-like agility, dad makes a sneak attack from behind sweeping the child from his feet and pinning him to the floor; mom swoops in and deftly removes the pajama bottoms with one hand while reaching for the clean underwear and pants with the other; with little more than a look, parents make a tag team reversal and mom pins the boy while dad quickly replaces the pajama top with a crisp, clean t-shirt; with a high-five and a “Hoo Ya” the child is dressed and released.
