A few weeks ago, Shaun came home from work as usual and went back to change into comfy clothes to be a more effective child wrestler. I heard him start snickering from the bathroom and raised my eyebrows.
I don't know about you, but generally, my bathroom experiences don't involve giggles.
Then he called me in there.
Um, my friends, in case you're not well-versed... being invited into the bathroom by your husband generally is not because he wants you to open the toothpaste. And if he's giggling? It's probably not because he's out of toilet paper, either.
But, I was brave. So I ambled over and tentatively opened the door. Nothing seemed amiss. He was standing by the tub in his jeans and a white t-shirt. Cracking up.
"Notice anything?" He pointed at himself.
Nope. He looked as normal as he does every single day. "Uh, no?"
"Are you sure?"
I stared harder. Then I noticed that his white t-shirt had a tiny pocket. A decidedly feminine pocket.
"Hey... hey! Is that-- IS THAT MY SHIRT!?"
He cracked up. Apparently, my maternity shirts work delightfully well as men's undershirts. He wore it almost all day before he got frustrated that it was a smidge too short and then realized it was mine. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have a more masculine substitute so he finished out the day wearing Liz Lange Maternity.
And weirdly... it looked good on him.
Now, let's not even talk about how it makes the 5 foot tall, 9 month pregnant woman feel when she realizes her 6 foot tall, broad shouldered hubs shared a shirt with her. A shirt that fits her well right now. Let's not mention that at all.
At least when the laundry runs low, he has an adequate substitute. Right? RIGHT!?
Now, someone pass me some cookies. If I'm going to wear the shirt, I'm going to fill it out, darn it.