"Just once I would like to see him dressed like a human being. I'd like to see him wearing a shirt, wearing a shirt right side out, wearing pants -- " Big Kid was looking at his younger brother with disdain and ranting.
Just another day in the life.
I looked over. He was shirtless, but wearing pants. Size 6 (he's a 10-12) pajama bottoms at 3pm that were shorter than capris, but whatever, they were pants.
"Actually, he's wearing pants," I pointed out.
"Hold on here, I'm listing some variables. I want to see him wearing pants that are not mine, pants that fit properly, pants that are not backwards, pants that haven't mysteriously appeared out of nowhere that belong to no one in this family, pants that aren't inside out, pants that aren't pajamas, underwear -- God, underwear every single time, but not just any underwear, only his own underwear. If he has a shirt on, I think he should also have pants AND underwear on and vice versa. The tags should be in the back and inside, at all times. Is this too much to ask? Any of these things?"
I considered his frustration, and then the impossibility of enforcing most of this. I looked over at little kid, with his 8-inches-too-short pajama pants with skulls on them, looking wounded. I remembered insisting that he put pants on because I was tired of seeing the backwards boxers he was rocking before that and I felt like the results were a reasonable compromise.
"It really is. Technically, he is wearing pants."
"It's ridiculous. My life is ridiculous."
"I don't disagree. I just don't know what you want me to do about it."
I'm not that big on wearing pants myself. It seems hypocritical to become the fashion police. If we're dressed in public, we're doing okay.
Sorry, Big Kid. You deserved a normal family.