The Jaybird wore a green, long-sleeved shirt to daycare on Tuesday. It was cold outside, so long sleeves were called for.
Sometime between the morning dropoff and afternoon nap, he decided he no longer wanted to wear that particular shirt. He informed Miss Betty of that fact. In no uncertain terms, the green shirt had to go. He pointed out, very reasonably, he thought, that Mommy and Daddy had brought a change of clothes that morning and it sat there in his cubby, waiting to be worn.
Miss Betty, very reasonably, she thought, pointed out that the reason Mommy and Daddy brought in a change of clothes was that on Monday, when he was lumped in with the older kids for nap time, the Jaybird had a little ... accident while he slept, and had to wear the way-too-big "house" clothes provided by the school for the rest of the day.
Now, I can almost envision the little wheels spinning in his little mind after Miss Betty's refusal:
Hmm.
I want to change my clothes, but they won't let me.
I got to change yesterday because I went pee-pee on my clothes.
What do I need to do to get my way and change out of this horrible, hand-me-down, too-stupid-for-words green shirt?
Oh. I know!
I'm not sure at what point Miss Betty noticed the wet stain spreading across the Jaybird's pants and shirt. I can only imagine her horror when she realized that the Jaybird had wet himself -- on purpose -- in order to force the much-desired change of clothes. I am sure that she was not at all pleased about the turn of events, and neither were the Jaybird's Mommy and Daddy when we found out that afternoon.
Still ... you have to hand it to the kid. He knew what he wanted, and Miss Betty inadvertantly gave him the means to reach that goal.
There's no way she could have perceived the depths of depravity I evidently have bred into my first-born son. It's not on Miss Betty, by any means. She's used to dealing with normal kids. Kids who actually try NOT to wet themselves.
At least now we know what we're up against. I don't even want to think about what he'll do the first time we refuse his desperate plea for a puppy, or a car of his own, or a mohawk. Or a tattoo. Or a sword.
