My husband came to me the other day and said, “Where’s my underwear?”
I stood there a little incredulous. This is not an issue I wish to address. I have long had a policy that his underwear is not my purview. “I don’t know,” I replied, eye roll, sigh, “I am not responsible for your underwear.”
Hubby: No seriously, where is it at?
Me: Seriously, I don’t know
Hubby: (stomps around, digs through piles of clothes, mutters to himself)
Me: After pausing and thinking for a moment, “What about all the pairs of underwear you have been throwing out.” (It suddenly came to me that I have observed several pairs of my husband’s underwear buried in the kitchen trash. And honestly, when one finds their husband’s underwear buried in the kitchen trash it is in the category of I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know.)
Hubby: I haven’t been throwing out any underwear.
Me: Yes you have, I have seen something like two or three pairs a week in the trash.
Hubby: Why didn’t you tell me my underwear was in the trash?
Me: I assumed you knew. You threw it away.
Hubby: Why would I throw my underwear away?
Me: Remember the incident at Best Buy?
Hubby: (glares, more muttering)
Me: Well if you didn’t throw it away, and I didn’t throw it away…. (we both turn and look at the two year old)
Hubby: Z sweetheart, did you throw daddy’s underwear away?
Z: (blank stare)
Hubby: (holding a pair of underwear this time) Did you throw these away Z?
Z: (face lights up) Oh yeah, Daddy, I help.
At that moment my mind flashed back to the many times over the last three months that I have followed the advice of all the parenting books about engaging your toddler in the care of the new baby. I have been asking her to “help” for three months now by throwing the baby’s diapers out when I change her. Perhaps this is a faulty strategy. I think we are going to need more underwear.