Kidy
This morning, little one, you want to get dressed with no help at all. All by yourself, start to finish. But clothes are tricky customers. The sleeve hides your hand. The button skips its hole. And the shoes, the shoes keep swapping feet when you are not looking.
'Allow me to demonstrate,' says Growy grandly, and gets dressed too. Shoes on both ears. A sock stretched over its head like a hat. Both legs down one trouser leg, hopping in a circle. You laugh so hard you fall over with one arm still in a sleeve. 'What?' says Growy, sock slipping over one eye. 'Is this not right?'
So you teach Growy the whole outfit, piece by piece, and while you fix Growy, your own hands quietly figure things out too. Then Growy shares a secret about shoes: 'When a shoe lands on its own true foot, listen. It gives a click, tiny as a beetle's yawn. Wrong foot: nothing. Silence.' You try it. Left shoe, left foot: click. You feel it more than hear it, like a key finding its lock.
The button finds its hole on the third try. The sleeve gives up your hand. The second shoe clicks home. It took ages, and some of it is a bit crooked, and all of it is yours. 'By myself does not mean fast,' Growy says, pulling the sock off its head at last. 'By myself means mine.'
You stand at the door, dressed top to bottom by your own two hands, feeling about three meters tall. 'So, little one,' Growy asks, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'Put on ONE thing start to finish with nobody helping, and listen for the click.' See you tomorrow, little one.