Every now and then, there comes a certain point in parenting when you realize you’ve been totally had. It usually happens when you’re feeling pretty good about this whole parenting thing. Like, you nailed a pep talk or helped him work on a new skill. You pat yourself on the back, proud of your savvy and being ahead of the game.

Then there’s a moment when you realize that you’ve simply briefly forgotten that it’s actually the sub-four-footer in the house who’s driving this bus. And half the time he’s so sly that you can almost feel the driving wheel in your own hands before he reminds you that driver seat’s not yours.

Toby’s been pretty good about getting dressed by himself lately. I can leave him in his room unsupervised with his dresser and he eventually comes out adorned in relatively sane choices most of the time. Granted, his choices are pretty limited, but he’s got a pretty good handle on the basics of covering the necessary areas with fabric.

The one thing he seems to always need help with is the snap of his jeans. He waddles up to me with his belly stuck out and asks, “Will you snap it, please?” (Did you really believe that? HA. He usually just grunts and points to his midriff area. He’s all man, this one.)

It’s logical. He has small hands and it’s an odd angle to get leverage. I can see why he might not be able to get the snap totally closed.

And since his brief flirtation with using his fly for potty breaks has been postponed until a later date, he has to pull his pants down and ergo unsnap the snap every time. (He was all gung-ho to use his fly to pee, and he was relatively proficient at it, but apparently he started a revolution at school and it looked cool and every little boy wanted to use their fly and there were varying levels of proficiency…. let’s just say that I was taken aside and asked to delay the fly-usage level of development. Sorry ladies.)

The other night after he’d gone potty and washed his hands before dinner, he came downstairs unsnapped and completed the routine. I duly leaned down and snapped his jeans button, then asked with genuine curiosity, “Who does up your button after you pee at school?”

His reply? “Oh, I do it myself,” in a breezy, offhand tone as he waltzed away.

Ba dump bump. Illusion of any upper hand just went poof.

My only consolation? For a few days, until he figures out some new trick, I’ll feel smugly superior when I tell him he blew his cover and he needs to snap himself up. I’ll enjoy it, for as long as it lasts.