Dressing with a two-year-old

I was standing in a towel, halfway between my bath and bedroom, when Miles opened my underwear drawer. I pulled out a pair of undies that once fit well and told Miles these were like diapers for adults.

Miles tugged on the handle of my sock drawer. I twisted out a pair of beige woolens. Miles ran away and returned with a mismatched pair of toddler-size athletic socks, but they were the same thickness so I gave him full credit.

Miles narrowed his gaze to my pants drawer and pounded it softly, then patted my bare leg. I chose a pair and watched him disappear. He came back brandishing footsie pajama bottoms, gray with an all over pattern of cars and trucks.

Miles moved on to my shirt drawer; I chose a black top. He scooted off and returned empty-handed. In our copy-cat fashion euphoria, I guess we both forgot that Miles’s shirt drawer is beyond his tippy-toed reach.

Also, Miles resists nearly all shirts. The idea of poking his head through any garment’s neck opening has distressed him since he was born. We enter Garment Negotiations at least once a day, and to my discredit, we will continue to do so until I get off my cheap ass and replace all his excellent hand-me-down tees and sweaters with spanking new button-down shirts.

But with new hope today, copy-cat-induced, euphoric, hope, I followed my son to his room, picked him up, creaked open his overstuffed shirt drawer and awaited his selection. I got instead the big head shake, the silent no, the repugnant yet somehow aloof there’s nothing here for me reaction.

Miles motioned for me to put him down. He bee-lined to his half-opened pjs drawer and selected a red, puppy-emblazoned footsie one-piece, which I had previously zipped closed so that it would look nice when folded inside his dresser. (Unlike the way I’ve jammed his hardly used shirts in the shirt drawer.) Without unzipping the puppy pjs, Miles tried to insert his arms into the pajama sleeves. Compounding this challenging situation, Miles was already sporting blue, winter-weight, zip-up pjs. I suggested we reconsider our clothing plan.

We trekked back to my bedroom, where his treasured socks and pj bottoms huddled on the floor. I sat him on the bed, pulled off his blue pjs, slipped on his gray leggings with footsies, and placed his naked arms into the sleeves of the red pjs, as he had requested. Now he was happy. He has opted for this pjs-as-cloak ensemble before, and the way he parades around in it, a bare chest offset by swinging, swaying pjs slung from his shoulders, always reminds me of Steven Tyler’s rock video presence.

I let Miles jump on the bed for what seemed like a long time, until Steven Tyler’s jacket got the best of him. Refusing assistance, Miles squeezed out of his red cloak, made clucking noises (our sound for food, please) and signed for milk.

I insisted some shirt must be worn if we were to head downstairs. Outside it’s 2 degrees F with the wind chill factor.

Despite my cold air warnings, Miles continued to boycott tops. In just his legging footsies he ran to his bedroom, then his bathroom, and closed the door. In a brilliant move, I ran to my bedroom, grabbed one of Chris’s T-shirts, and lured my boy out of his bathroom with it. He happily ducked his head into the giant Hanes top and soon we were mobile.

We went downstairs, had some milk, turned on the TV (Miles had been pleading for TeeTee since 8 am). He stood in a box, sat on the couch, and channel surfed, all in dad’s T.

I wish I could say I let him watch TV because he was sick, or as a reward because he’s been so good, but there’s no truth to either. I am simply being lazy. Of note, though, Miles found interest in a Spanish language soap opera that featured what looked like a priest saying something terrorizingly important to what looked like a nun on her death bed. Then my son switched to News 12 Connecticut, as local as news gets.

He’s up, that multi-culturally interested and politically aware son of mine. I gotta go.