Forty feet away, his features obscured by the bright sun gleaming through the window behind him . . .
The shape, the color, the way the collar rested on his shoulders . . . I knew.
No confusion, just clarity. I knew exactly what had happened that morning. Even though he didn’t understand it himself.
Yes, this very morning, my eight year old son walked into church . . . . wearing a girl’s shirt. A very-clearly-cut-for-a-girl-and-slightly-puffy-sleeved shirt.
See, I left the house at 7:15, leaving my wonderful and overall-very-capable husband to get the three kids ready and to church by 8:10.
Last night, I purposefully chose my daughter’s dress and matching sandals. I placed them carefully over the chair and repeated the phrase “THESE shoes. Don’t come to church in any shoes but THESE” over and over. And over.
I mistakenly believed that since my boys have so many fewer choices, I was safe to shirk my outfit-choosing-responsibilities for them.
But I forgot about the shirt. The girl’s uniform shirt hanging in their closet.
My daughter doesn’t have to wear a uniform to kindergarten, but someone had given her a few uniform pieces in a bag of hand-me-downs. After washing it, I absentmindedly hung the shirt in the boys’ closet with the rest of their shirts.
I generally pull clothes for them to wear each morning for school, since they tend to be rather unaware of what they’re putting on. (Hence this post.) I had seen the shirt hanging there, but I knew to avoid it.
Out of place items don’t get on my nerves, I just work around them. I go with the flow.
But I was tired last night.
And running late this morning.
Here’s the thing. I knew that shirt was in their closet. I knew it wasn’t supposed to be. But I have this amazing ability to work around stuff like that. It doesn’t bother me because I can just avoid it.
The other people who live with me? Not so much. And then something like this happens. As it always . . . eventually . . . does.
I’m guessing the extreme adaptability that serves me well in other areas of life . . . is also part of my slob-problem.
Thankfully, I was finished early with music rehearsal and had just enough time to run him home to change before the service started. And thankfully, he forgave his absentminded mama.