One of those mornings. Nothing to wear. There are three pairs of shoes, two shirts, and four pairs of jeans strewn on my bed upstairs. I am already twenty minutes late to work.
"How do I look?" I ask. I stand in front of my husband and son with a slight protrusion in my lower lip. I sigh, with drama. They are eating eggs with salsa. My daughter is watching Rabbids Invasion on the couch.
My son, who has his shirt on backwards, asks, "What do you want to wear?"
"Jeans."
He looks at my dark wash jeans. "Check," he says. His hair is combed on the right half and sticking up on the left half of his head.
My husband is in his pajamas and doesn't have his contacts in yet, so he squints through his glasses and scratches his unshaven face. "What kind of shirt did you want to wear?" he asks.
"A t-shirt," I say, spreading my arms so that they can look at my black t-shirt.
"Check," says my son. "Necklace? Check. Earrings? Check. Shoes? Check." He shovels in the last of his eggs.
My husband comes up to me and squeezes me in interesting places. "You look fine," he says.
My son says, "You don't look too terrible."
My husband giggles. I giggle as I say goodbye to him and lead the kids out to the car. I notice for the first time that my daughter has her shoes on the wrong feet.
"Come on, Mommy Toon-Ta," she says.
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