And oddly enough, when he does, he turns into a carpet mover. Sometimes, if I have to put him in a Time Out, I stand outside his door and listen. Trying not to laugh; giving away my position. I can hear him angrily clearing the carpet, then rolling it up, talking to himself. Huff... huff... huff... Daddy's little boy.
When I open the door, out he'll storm with the carpet over his shoulder, only to throw it down in another room, stomp back in his room, and slam the door.
It kills me.
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