We had a play date that extended well beyond Miles's mid-morning nap. On the short drive home, my almost two-year-old fell asleep in the back of the car.

As I carried him up to the kitchen, he began to wake. We listened to a snow plow as it scraped around in our driveway. The sound of any truck approaching (FedEx, the local recycling company, the garbage hauler) is an exciting noise to Miles.

I placed my son in the Learning Tower, a glorified step stool with railings, and positioned him in front of the window.

I sliced up two pickles and fed them to the mesmerized window-watcher. The slices could have been popcorn, Miles could have been watching a thriller. Every so often, "Mar" (more) would bubble from his lips. I was pretty sure he was requesting more pickles but it could have been he wanted more truck action. Miles used to wake up and immediately sign "outside." Now he awakes, signs for milk, and says Tuck.

I started to defrost some shrimp when I realized the “Mar" utterances had ceased. It was oddly quiet now that the Bobcat snow plow vehicle had drifted away from our condo wing.

I looked up from the thawing shrimp to see Miles slumped over the window sill, his head resting on a fluffy raccoon toy as if it were a pillow. With half open eyes he managed to mumble one lonesome wistful word: Tuck.

I slipped him into the crib, pretty sure of what he'd be dreaming about.

I kept hearing a RRR RRR RRR while I showered.

I dismissed it as a motor from Chris’s rechargeable shaver. I showered on, knowing Miles was safe in the bathroom with me, and occupied with something.

The RRR RRR RRR was the sound of the spools inside the mint flavored Glide dental floss container, reeling at a regular but urgent pace. My son loves mint. He craves toothpaste (I know, I know, most paste is poisonous in large amounts), mint flavored floss, and most recently, After Eight chocolate mints.

Miles was desperate. We hid the After Eights this week, right after our toddler began asking for them for breakfast. We transitioned Miles onto kid-safe toothpaste five weeks ago. The floss, however, was still fair game, and Miles needed his fix. Yesterday, in the bathroom, in the safety and anonymity of the steam from his mom’s shower, he got his dose.

Miles cranked out yards and yards of dental floss. When it was new, the pack contained 43.7 yards; I’d say half of that amount was on or near my son yesterday morning. Some of it sat in a loose figure eight on the window sill, but more was draped around his neck, like multiple strands of pearls. I was too wet to get the camera and capture it. I just now tried to recreate the scene but it’s not the same.

At one point, Miles had tufts in each fist, with one strand forming a bridge between his hands. He made a motion to bring the minty strand to his lips, but the cord was too slack, and he missed, twice, and ended up merely licking air, confused.

That’s when I cracked. I had been trying to look solemn, or at least not look as amused as I felt. This is perhaps my biggest parental flaw; I can’t scorn him for playing with stuff I’ve left within his grasp, especially stuff that I’ve encouraged him to interact with previously. This philosophy might come back to bite me hard, in fact I am sure it will, but I’ll cross that minty slippery bridge when I get to it.

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.

I asked Miles to put a trash bag into the kitchen garbage can. He was happy to locate the box of bags and attempt to insert one slick black sack into the can.

After struggling for a few moments, Miles accepted my help in opening the static-sealed sides of the Glad trash bag.

I walked away to close a hallway door, or bring a mug in from the living room, or something. This is what I found when I returned to the kitchen.

Miles couldn’t very well push the bag deep into the receptacle, due to ShortArmitis, a common affliction among children and very pregnant women, so he draped it (as if it were a tablecloth) lovingly all around the bin. He disguised our unsightly Wedgwood blue Sterilite trash can as a black shiny thing. And he was proud.