Recently I noted that our milk and bread supply was dipping to dangerously low levels and had to make an evening run to the grocery store after Mr. A had come home from work.
"What do I need to do with the kids?" he'd asked me.
"All you have to do is put them to bed." I answered as I walked out the door, shopping list in hand.
When I'd returned not more than two hours later, I was greeted by a slightly nervous Mr. A.
"I think you should check on M" he said. "When I went to check on him, he felt warm and he was clammy. He may have a fever. I hope he's not sick"
When you have a child with the lengthy medical history like M has, you take the word, "fever" very seriously. I put my bags haphazardly on the counter and made a beeline for M's room.
Mr. A was right, M was certainly clammy. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his damp hair was sticking to his head. I pulled back the covers, and as soon as I did, I let out an audible sigh of relief.
Mr. A had dressed M in fleece pajamas. It had been almost 90 degrees that day. M wasn't sick, he was slow-cooking.
"It's a million degrees outside...why did you put him in fleece?"
"I didn't know. They were in the drawer. I thought it would be okay."
I tried to wake M so I could get him into cooler pajamas, but M was sound asleep. I peeled the fleece bottoms off and took off the blankets and let M sleep with just a sheet in his shirt and underwear.
The next morning, I was folding laundry in the living room, which happens to be next to M's room. I could hear M beginning to stir and knew he'd be up soon.
Instead of his usual, "Good morning, Mama!" I heard an incredibly freaked out M shouting, "Oh no! Oh no! My pants! My pants are gone! Where my pants, Mama?"
I found this to be hysterical and I called Mr. A to tell him what M had said. He wasn't nearly as amused as I was. He didn't get it so I called my dear friend and my mother and both responded with a hearty belly laugh. Women just see things a bit differently than men do I suppose.
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