Houdini

My daughter's in the throes of potty training.  Now, she's been pretty good so far.  Her accidents are pretty much isolated to the mornings.  But sleeptime is still a diaper-only affair.

Naptime. Pour Claire into bed.  Lower the blinds, stroke her hair. Her eyes close.  I creep out of the room.  Barely make it downstairs before I hear her puttering about.  Back upstairs.   

Claire? She's sitting on her floor, flapping her diaper over her head.  No matter that it was a pull-up - she's field-stripped it down to its component parts.  She shoots a knowing smile.  Had she known to say "ta da!" I would not have been shocked.  But my bad - she was in just a diaper, no pants.  Too easy for her to pull that off.

New diaper. Pants.  More stroking of hair.  I walk down the hall. Giggles from her room.  Turn back around.  

Second diaper? On the floor.  Claire's wearing the shit-eating grin of a Vegas magician staring down a disbelieving tourist who, just moments before, had inspected the buckles on a straightjacket - a starightjacket that now lays at their collective feet.  Ugh. Now this is a game.  

Diaper reapplied.  Dress her in new, form-fitting leggings to slow her down.  More hair stroking.   Sneak out again. Instant rustling.  Throw open the door - Claire's en flagrante trying to remove her leggings.  

Her eyes go wide.  She's shocked.  No, she's appalled.    I've pulled back the curtain, broken the sacred covenant between performer and audience.  The magician is never supposed to reveal her stagecraft. 

That's it.  Time to show her who's boss. I lie down with her, stroking her hair until she's asleep.  Twenty minutes later, I walk out.  Only then do I realize I got played. By a toddler.  

Her best trick of all.