Perhaps Mr. G and his wardrobe choices will soon require their own blog. But until he can write or type, I will have to tell the stories.
It was community helper day at preschool last Friday. You were supposed to dress as your favorite community helper. Personally, I thought it was lame – but no one asked for my opinion. Beyond the obvious – fireman or policeman – what is there?
Well, G decided he wanted to be a teacher. Just like his daddy. Now I wasn’t entirely confident that a teacher is technically a ‘community helper’ but far be it for me to dwell on technicalities. His mind was made up – he was going to be a teacher. He also talked about going to work with his dad – ‘one day when he got big’ and taking along some snacks in case he got hungry. Apple sauce and raisins. I’m not sure Jason has ever taken apple sauce or raisins to the university, but in G’s mind, those are the must-have snacks for teachers.
Thursday night we talked briefly about what a ‘teacher’ might wear. I referenced Jason’s workday uniform: black sweater and jeans. ‘I think a teacher would wear a sweater and some pants,’ I suggested. ‘And maybe a backpack.’
We woke up on Friday morning and I figured I’d start generating excitement about ‘dress-up’ day since, after all, Mr. G was the only kid in his class who refused to wear pajamas on pajama day; the one who could scarcely be coerced to wear green for St Patrick’s Day.
‘I got dressed all by myself’ he announced as he came down the stairs. I looked up. Argyle sweater vest over a long-sleeved t-shirt. Nice touch, I thought. Strange short pants. What?
Upon closer inspection I discovered these were the same pants the Hen had worn on Monday. Size 18-24 months. In the nicest way possible I tried to let G know that he was wearing his little brother’s pants. That they were actually too small (short!) for him. He wasn’t budging.
We got to school where I was due to volunteer for the day. One of the moms tried to suppress a smile when she saw my oldest walk through the door. ‘He’s wearing his brother’s pants’ I whispered in her ear. ‘Oh,’ she nodded. ‘I thought they were lederhosen…but I didn’t think you were German.’
Another mom was taking pictures of all the kids dressed as ‘community helpers’. There was a cowgirl, and a farmer, and a doctor, and a rockstar. And of course our ‘teacher’. The mom looked at the Gort and got her camera ready. ‘I think I know what you’re supposed to be,’ she declared.
Oh, I’m sure you don’t, I thought privately.