This morning, Mbot was dawdling. He is three and the very best place to be when you are three, apparently, is naked on the living room rug arguing with your brother over who has custody of the extra-pointy Magna-tiles. Why hurry?
I had been asking him to put on his Captain America underpants for fifteen minutes while I cleaned up from breakfast. From the kitchen, I witnessed a few good starts, with Captain America face down on the floor, like we’d practiced, so that the underpants looked like Mbot was already in them, but invisible. Then I could see feet in the air, the flash of a red leg band entangled in toes, and then when I’d go out to help himMbot finish getting dressed, Captain America would be mysteriously balled up several feet away from the action.
Hoping to go out and make the most of a beautiful morning (and under the pressure that only an adult raised in the North, who knows that these mornings are numbered, probably numbered in numbers even Bots can count to, before the monstrous summer heat descends), I tried to hurry things up. I said that we could not go out to play if we did not put our underpants on. I said that I had my underpants on. That Gbot had his baby version of underpants on. Even Daddy at work had his underpants on. Etc., etc.
“But Mom!” Mbot wailed. “I can’t put them on! It’s too complicated!”
Well, at least he could articulate his issue.
My issue, on the other hand, is that it’s easy for me to forget that Mbot isn’t nearly as old as he sounds. Yesterday after brushing his teeth, he told me he “did it properly” and then asked to go to the playground, the one “without too much equipment.”
I sat down on the rug and we put them on together.
Sometimes, even superhero underpants need a helping hand.