To be (or not to be)
I was permitted a lay-in this morning, De-facto got up with the girls to ready them for school. He retired early last night, tired from his trip. I stayed up, writing the previous post, and after posting it, nosing around my bookmarked sites, generally falling into the black hole known as the blogosphere. He slept through it all.
Which is to say he hasn’t read my last post, and I had not yet told him the story of the dress debacle.
Lingering in that (delicious) barely-awake but no-longer-asleep state, I listened to the percussive kitchen music. The opening and shutting of the fridge, the pouring of a liquid, probably juice. Cutlery against the cutting board, silverware being pulled from the drawer, the hum of the microwave. An entire breakfast concerto, performed without my direction.
I listened to the voices of my family, most notably De-facto’s as he conducted the predictable breakfast dialogue, “Will you drink your juice?” “Would you like some more?” “Can you say please?” “No, you can’t watch a movie.” And then this:
“Do you want me to get you something to wear, or do you want to pick out your own clothes?”
That is the (better) question.
