And next I'll be applying for a job in the design department at Victoria's Secret

In my effort to always make my house appear perfectly designed and polished (stop laughing), I would store my husband's superfluous and ridiculously redundant extra pillows under the bed.

They just didn't jive with my black and white bedding, since they were, well, not black and white.

The other night, my husband is arranging his side of the bed to lay down... Pause. Does anyone else's husband do this? Or do you do this? Like a mother bird making a nest for her babies, where every tiny little stick and feather has to be perfectly placed before you can even THINK about sitting or laying on it? Fluffing blankets, shaking pillows, straightening the sheet, for the love of all that is good and holy JUST LAY DOWN AND SHUT UP ALREADY!

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, so my husband is floofing and fluffing and doing whatever it is that he does with all his bedding and I look over to see a cloud of dust around him like PigPen from Charlie Brown. He stands very still, letting the flying dust settle all around and on top of him... "Uh... my pillows are a little dusty," he observes. Genius.

I try not to laugh, because well, duh, and because I feel responsible for the dustiness. And the subsequent sneezing.

So I decided that if I made his pillows more attractive to match our bedding, I wouldn't have to hide them under the bed! Man, I'm smart.

I'm at the fabric store and Logan is just as happy as can be because we're making something special for Daddy and he can't wait and he loves all the pretty colored fabrics and wants to pick out the color all by himself because Dad would love a Batman pillow and then he could... Yeah.

So we're at the cutting counter where I'm also buying some pink sparkly tulle and elastic (for a different project - rest your brain trying to figure out why I would make my husband lay his head on pink sparkly tulle pillow and what the heck elastic has to do with into pillowcase-making). Logan asks the 103 year old lady helping us what the elastic is for. She proudly shows him the elastic waistband of her denim-colored non-jeans and explains what it's for.

Logan tries to locate his own elastic in the waistband of his real jeans, but can't because jeans aren't really supposed to have elastic in the waistband, unless you're 103 and work at JoAnn's Fabrics. But he did manage to find his underwear waistband.

"Like this!?" He says and gives himself a wedgie pulling half his underwear out of his pants.

"Yes, honey, just like that!" The old lady says.

We get our items and we're on our way to the checkout.

The cashier lady invetories my odd collection of fabrics and elastic and asks what we're making. Before I can even open my mouth, Logan says, "We're making underwear for my daddy!"

Yes, Logan, pink sparkly underwear made of tulle for your dad.

I can feel all the eyes watching me.

We have a couple of neighbors that surely I've mentioned before, that don't care for us a whole lot. Well, since I'm a grown-up, I've just learned to look past our differences and go on about my merry life (read: Give them more crap to talk about.)

What good, decent and honest parent doesn't make a huge pile of leaves and chuck their kids into them over and over?


Certainly I want to be all those nice things, so I'm just doing my part for the betterment of my parenting career.


And you can just see the smile on his face, despite what my neighbors might be saying to each other behind those blinds.


Plus, I would be very disappointed in myself if one day when I'm old and gray and didn't have these photos of my child flying through the air into a pile of leaves.


I guess I'm just sentimental like that.