This morning I woke up late. A quick peek in the washer confirmed what I already knew, every piece of clothing my children owned was sitting inside of it damp or was buried in the overflowing hamper in my bedroom that I am convinced has no bottom.
I had just begun to sort through the clothes atop the pile in the hamper, carefully accepting or rejecting each piece via the sniff test, when Anders stumbled into my room. He looked at me and yawned.
“What are you doing, mom?”
“I’m picking out your clothes for today. Here,” I said, holding out a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.
“Have you washed these since I wore them last week?” He eyed me suspiciously.
“Just put them on! It’s time for breakfast.” I slipped past him and headed into the kitchen where I found his little sister rifling through the pantry for a breakfast of contraband. (Fruit snacks.) She was a vision in footie pajamas and a ski mask. You read that right. A ski mask. Both my kids received one as a gift for Christmas (from someone I can only assume hates me) and have worn them way more than I’d like in the days since.
Taking them to the grocery store while they both have them on has been a real delight. People look at me like I’m pulling some kind of kid-disguising Michael Jackson stunt only, little do they know, I’m the victim here.
Long before we headed out the door Anders was wearing his as well. On the drive to school, I caught a glimpse of them in my rearview mirror. Two sets of little eyes peered out at me from the cut-out in the cloth.
“Mom, sometimes I can’t breathe in this thing,” Anders piped up from the backseat.
“Really? That’s awful. Maybe you shouldn’t wear it anymore!” I felt the hope creeping in.
“Don’t worry, mom. It’s okay. I’ll just pull it down a little so my nose sticks out like this. I want to wear this everyday from now on.”
“Me too!” Danica squealed from the seat next to his.
It would be a real shame if those ski masks mysteriously went missing.