Owen wore jeans this weekend. It was kind of a big deal, because the children are not huge fans of "buttoning," "zipping," "snapping," or "supporting their own weight."
Elastic waists for life in this household.
But Owen dressed himself in jeans this weekend. As in more than once. On purpose. Without laying on the ground and moaning about how there were no pants left, only jeans.
So as he was putting on his PJs tonight, I asked him why he chose the jeans.
"I was just looking to have pockets," he says.
And I think, "oh shit." Because I do the bulk of the laundry around here. And while I understand that Chris is a squirrely little man and I have to check his pockets for mints and tissues and buttons and batteries and chap sticks and whatnots, the children don't really tend to use their pockets so I will admit to having become quite lax about checking their pockets. And now I'm wondering what manner of odd little collection I've been running through the washer.
"Pockets? Why pockets?"
"Well," Owen responds, "I just really like to have somewhere to rest my hands."
Oh. Well. Of course.