Back in February, before all of the snow fell across the state, Hubby and I were checking out the discount racks at the local Target (we're anti-WalMart, for a variety of reasons. I'll argue with you later.
The boys needed long underwear, warmer jammies, and in general, socks. Pickle Boy wears through his like no one I've ever seen before. Or it just might be that most of them are hand me downs. Who knows.
On our way to the boys section, we passed the women's lingerie. My husband stopped in front of a display of bras and started looking through the sizes.
I watched him for a few minutes and try to figure out what he is doing. Before I could completely process any reasonable line of thinking, he asked, "The green one is pretty. Do you like it?"
I must have nodded or done something to show that I did like the style and color. He tossed it in the cart. And turned to look at me. "What?"
"It's the right size. You don't know my size for anything. You almost know my pants size but it's still a ball park guess." And he's a sweetie who guess on the low side.
"Honey, some things are important enough to know what size it takes to contain 'em."