It was playtime and the cloak area was chaos.
Some children were in fierce battle with their zips, tugging and grunting with twisted faces.


A few were near tears, defeated by sleeves turned inside out or shoes on the wrong feet.


Others had cracked it and were racing outside, already halfway up the climbing frame.

And then there was Rolo.

He stood like royalty waiting for a butler.
His coat was at his feet. His arms were folded. He looked at me, utterly unimpressed, and said:


“You do it. My mum always does it.

The teacher crouched down, smiling. “I bet you can give it a try.”
He frowned. “No. I can’t.”

She gave him time. She gave him encouragement. She even gave him the flipping-over-the-hood trick. Still nothing.
Eventually, an adult helped him.

The next battle? The book bag.
“Rolo, let's get your bag. It’s home time.”
He glanced at it on his peg like it was filled with bricks. 

“It’s heavy,” he said.
(It had one picture book in it.)
He made no move. He just stood there until, again, someone got it for him.

Over time, it grew. Zips. Shoes. Snack packets. Putting a pencil back in the pot. 

“I can’t do it,” he’d say, and just stand still until someone swooped in.

This routine played on repeat for the first month - not because he was incapable, but because he’d never had to do it himself.

He wasn’t lazy. He’d just learned: if I wait long enough, someone will always do it for me.