You learn something new every day.
Steven has specific taste in clothes, and the rules are quite rigid most of the time. His uniform of choice is usually jeans, a t-shirt (ALWAYS short-sleeved. I tried to put a long-sleeved one on him and was promptly shut down. ) and a long-sleeved denim shirt over that. Belt, sneakers and one of his John Deere hats.
He's been branching out a bit lately, first color-wise then fabric choice. He decided he wanted corduroy pants.
Cat hair magnets, I warned him. I was a bit sad he might never know the joys of the zoop-zoop-zoop of trying to get somewhere in a hurry in them, too. Such is life.
I resisted change this time.
I saw a pair on the clearance rack in Target a while back, so I surprised him. I figured for $8, we wouldn't be out much for trying. It wasn't my first rodeo buying him something he swears he NEEDS, just to have him change his mind.
I felt pretty smart.
Until this morning...
There are things you just don't think of when you're caring for someone with a physical limitation. Over the years, we've developed a smooth routine for getting ready in the morning, and we've found it works best to have him lie on the bed to get his pants up. We then swing him up to a sitting position, move to the edge of the bed again, and transfer back into the wheelchair. We're a well-oiled machine.
The corduroy had other ideas.
His trousers decided to cling so tightly to the bedcoverings the best we could do was manage the kind of dragging, shuddering forward progress that felt like a bare butt on a dry slip-n-slide.
I tugged and straightened as best I could, then we made the swing into the chair only to encounter the same issue in reverse as he slid (?) into his seat.
What goes up must come down. We had wedgies going in heretofore impossible directions.
At least Steven increased his vocabulary by listening to me mutter as I tried to keep his slacks from ending my chances for future grandchildren. His new phrase is "death by moose knuckle".
Corduroy, the devil's fabric.