I’ll admit it. I was smug. Oh, so very smug.
Two days ago I posted on Facebook that after my younger son tried on a pair of pants I found in his older brother’s closet and discovering that—glory be!—they actually fit, I didn’t have to put buying slacks on my to-do list. I knew there were a couple dress shirts in that same closet (what a great place to shop, I naively believed) that also would fit my #2 son.
Yes, he was all set for that night’s high school fall sports banquet, which is a casually dressy affair. So I thought.
But as those of us who are aficionados of “Survivor” know, the minute you become smug, that’s when your torch is about to be snuffed out. Somewhere Jeff Probst was laughing Monday night.
At 6 p.m., my #2 son was dressed and ready to go . . . except that he only had socks on his feet.
“Go find your brother’s good shoes in his closet,” I told him. Which he did.
“They’re a size eight,” he reminded me. Oops.
The bigger younger brother’s feet? Size 10.
That sound you just heard? That was me falling off my smug-mom-thinks-she’s-got-her-act-together pedestal.