My son and I both had to use the washroom at the same time. I went upstairs; he used the washroom downstairs. Before I was able to leave, I could hear him hollering for me. After shouting, "What?" through the house a few times, I was able to figure out that he wanted assistance; he said there wasn't enough toilet paper. After some more shouting back and forth and "Pardon me?!!" ... "What?!?" I was able to communicate to him that he should just get more out of the bathroom cabinet.
It was quiet for a while and then I heard him shouting something about the cabinet. Since it was not in an interrogative tone, and I was tired of shouting, I didn't respond. After a minute or two I could hear, closer, in a more conversational volume, some typical pre-schooler self-talk, though, given what I could make out, I was curious: " ... and this pile is for Dada ... and this pile is for me ... "
So when was done, I went downstairs. Apparently, he got a little sidetracked while replenishing the toilet paper. Benjamin had spread reading material from the bathroom cabinet all over the floor. Among the "piles" were his pants. He was in the middle of this debris field, naked from the waist down, doing some serious perusing and "sorting."
After shaking off my silent, squinty "huh?" stare, and snorting out a few laughs, I began, "Uhhhh ... what ... are you ... doing? I mean, ... why ... did you put ... all this stuff out here ... ?"
"Oh, uh, so I— I thought I would just surprise you," he cheerfully explained.