A few nights ago I went to the gym when Jon got home from work and when I returned Leta was standing next to the coffee table wearing a sweatshirt and a jacket but no pants. Her white Michelin thighs were reflecting light at the same frequency as her diaper and for a moment she looked like she was nude from the waist down.
“That’s quite the ensemble she has on,” I told Jon. “Were you thinking that the jacket would keep her upper half warm enough that she wouldn’t notice how cold she was on bottom?”
“I wasn’t thinking about her warmth quotient,” he said. “She saw the jacket and made specific demands that it be put on her body that instant.”
“So you were thinking about your quality of life quotient. Welcome to motherhood.”
Just then I took hold of Leta’s left hand to walk her to the bathtub. Jon hopped off the couch and took her right hand, and off to see the wizard we went, hand in hand in hand. Except it was less like Dorothy and the Scarecrow and Tinman and more like two gangly C-3PO’s flanking a very drunk R2-D2 who would have rolled head first into the doorjamb had we not been leading the way. It was one of those odd little moments when I almost passed out from love for that malfunctioning, pants-less little twerp.
