The other morning, while I was nursing Baby N in her room, T - still in his crib - called across the hall to me:
T: Maaaaaammaa, I wna wr my rhynocrs shrt!
Me: No honey, you can't. It's not clean.
T: I wnt mine futball shrt.
Me: No, it's still in the wash too.
T: Mine airpln shrt.
Me: No, honey. I'm sorry. I think that's dirty too.
Finally, after flipping through his Rolodex of shirts that he used to like to wear, T offered up one more option. This time, T's query was not quick and casual. Nor did it escalate in demand, like his other requests. The question lacked any hope that the shirt would soon be slapped onto his body. No. This time, T's hesitant,"Tgr one?" puffed out like a brand new medical resident offering up a diagnosis.
Poor kid. "Tgr one" has been at the bottom of the hamper for weeks, even months. I'm surprised T even remembered that he once possessed a shirt with a big tiger head on the front.
I racked my own Rolodex. Dragon shirt? No way. That was deep-sixed weeks before the tiger. Other football shirt? Maybe. Lame baseball shirt with tiny fake cardinal and three-quarter sleeves? Probably.
You know you're a terrible laundress when a two year old can't even find anything to wear.