Last evening the young one came in from her outing, plunked herself down in front of the computer, squirmed a bit, muttered, squirmed lots more, muttered lots more, moved about a bit, then gave a sigh of contentment. Said sigh made me lift my head from what I was doing at my desk on the other side of the room, just in time to see a bra sailing through the air from her direction and landing across the back of a chair. I understand … totally.
Call it the power of suggestion, but a short time later I found myself tugging at offending elastic around my upper ribs. Then squirming and tugging some more. Then she lifted her head at the sound of a sigh from my direction and watched my offending undergarment sailing through the air to join hers on the chair. “Yeah, Mommeh! Freedom is where it’s at.”
Not an unusual ritual, but generally we remember to take said garments with us when we go up to bed. Except we didn’t last night.
This morning I came down to find them still on the chair, along with a pair of boxer shorts and a note pinned to the drapes on the front window. “Good morning, Ladies. Just thought I’d get involved in the room redecorating, too. Couldn’t find any with lace or a cute little bow, but are these at least the right colour?”