|My shoe is on the left. My daughter's|
is on the right.
In case you haven’t read the last month’s blog posts, I’ve been taking care of my daughter who had cardiothoracic surgery. And I’m tired. I didn’t realize how tired until yesterday.
As we were walking to the car, my daughter said: You’re wearing my shoes.
Me (thinking she was talking about the new shoes she bought me for Christmas): Yep.
Daughter: I thought you were going to wear your new shoes
Me (wondering at the redundancy of her thoughts and chalking it up to heavy painkillers): Yep.
Daughter (confused): But you’re wearing my shoes.
Me (looking at my feet): These are my shoes.
Daughter: Where did you get those shoes?
Me: Out of your closet.
Daughter: So those are my shoes.
Me: No. They’re mine. I must have put them in your closet.
Daughter: But they’re my shoes.
Me (looking at the shoes again): I don’t know what—(gearing starting to turn). Oh, wait, these are your shoes.
Daughter: No problem. But don’t they feel big? (She wears a half-size larger.)
Me: They feel pleasantly roomy. My toes can wiggle.
Me: I think I need a nap.