This morning The Boy climbed up into our bed complaining of cold feet. Maybe it was because the thermostat was set on 50. Maybe it was because with two comforters, a blanket AND a flannel sheet, he still can’t figure out out to, and this is going to sound so off the hook, pull the covers up.
Or maybe it was because his warm footie PJ’s were missing the footies.
E: Mommy, cold, cold.
K: Ethan, where are the feet in your footie pajamas?
E: No feet, Mommy.
His father was remarkably silent. I grabbed The Boy’s feet and held them up to his father’s face.
K: These pajamas had feet in them when I washed them yesterday.
K: Is there something you want to tell me?
K: Are you sure?
D: He was hot.
K: He was hot? So you got a pair of scissors and cut the feet out of his pajamas?
D: He wasn’t hot anymore.
K: At the moment. And he certainly isn’t hot now.
D: And they were too small for him anyway.
K: Good thinking. It’s not like we would ever have ANOTHER boy that could wear those pajamas.