Tate has been able to dress himself entirely for awhile now. Minus a few tricky snaps and buttons here and there.
So the newness of being independent in this area has worn off for him. It is slowly transforming into a chore. And of course, he picks the most inopportune times to spontaneously render himself completely helpless and will pitifully lie on the floor waiting for us to dress him.
This morning was heading in that direction. We were actually shaping up to be a little early to leave for Drue's preschool and the only hurdle standing in our way, was a 3 year old cutie pie in his fireman pjs.
"Tate, time to get your clothes on," I sing songed in my peppiest voice (which isn't all that peppy pre-coffee).
"I want to get dressed down here," he called from the living room.
"But your clothes are laid out up here, in my room," I sweetly informed him.
I headed into the girls room for a split second and then called to him again when I got back in the hallway.
"But I want to get dressed down here," he repeated.
"I understand, but your clothes are...." I trailed off as I stared at the empty floor of my room. That little stinker had somehow flown up the stairs and retrieved his outfit in the split second I'd had my back turned.
Oh fiddle faddle. It didn't really matter about his location, just the fact that he was getting his garments on. For some strange reason, he chose to plop himself down at the bottom of the stairs to the entryway and remove his pjs.
So I kept popping out in the hall to check his progress. He wasn't going as quickly as I would have liked for him to be going, so for a minor clarification I added, "I am going to be upset if I come down there and you don't have your clothes on," still in a halfway peppy tone.
"Ok," he acknowledged.
After a few more minutes had passed, I verbally checked his progress. "Tate? Are you dressed?".
"I got my unders on," he called back then added in the exact tone I used to check on him, "Are you ready to be mad at me?".