As a result of his broken leg, JT's independence has been severely curtailed. That means that he's underfoot and by my side most the time. And that is sometimes a trying situation. Last week, we went to the mall to give his fabulous new cast a test drive.
The absolute highlight of that outing was an incident in the women's room. We went together because trying to pee with crutches is a real pain in the bootie and my help is needed. So we're in the handicapped stall together. He does his business and then I take a turn. The women in the surrounding stalls got to hear the following conversation:
JT: You have flowers on your panties.
Me (cringing, horrified, giving off every non-verbal cue of the shut the f*&k up variety; speaking low to discourage further chatter): Yes.
JT: Only little girls have flowers on their panties. You are not a little girl.
Me (now defiant because, seriously, I don't need censure from a 7 year old): These are big girl flowers.
This response earned me a doubtful "whatever" look from my son and smothered laughter from the women in the other stalls.
My life is endlessly, admirably glamorous.