Last night, after derby practice, Sara and I brought the cranky, tired bundles of cute who live in our house home and attempted to put them to sleep. After Brynn was down, Sara lay on the couch with Harper while I washed off the glorious stench of exertion and public humiliation that is the act of wearing sleeveless shirts and flailing about on skates in front of an audience.
Upon completion of my shower, I emerged clean, pleasant smelling and in my underwear. I sat down on the couch next to my lovely wife and eldest daughter and the following conversation occurred:
Harper: Daddy? Undermeese? (Still haven't figured out how to say "pants")
Me: Yes, baby. I took a shower and now I'm ready for bed.
H: You have no shirt on?
Me: No, baby. I'm not wearing a shirt.
H: You put shirt on now?
Me: No, I'm going to bed soon so I'm not putting a shirt on.
H: You put shirt on now. (no longer a question)
Me: Alright. I'll get a shirt in a bit.
H: Go! Get shirt!
Everyone's a critic! I can't say she was wrong...
