"What's this?" I picked them up and unfolded them. "Bloomers!" Mommy quickly informed me that Munchkinhead had already told her she couldn't get rid of them and very well might have plans for them. Like an eager toddler yelling "MINE!", I pulled them on, over the skirt of the black suit I was still wearing from playing grown-up at work earlier in the day. But that was hours ago and 1,000 miles away, literally. Now, I was home, in Mommy's house, where no one ever grows up, delighting in the ruffled bloomers with the elastic that easily went over my skirt and rested snuggly against my waist. "They fit! They fit!" I jumped up-and-down. That means they won't fit Munchkinhead. I call dibs!" I tweeted Munchkinhead and Alfred to let them know. Alfred more as a courtesy, in case aliens had invaded her brain and made her suddenly interested in ruffled bloomers.
|Toro toro toro!|
I wore those bloomers most of the weekend, sometimes as shorts with a t-shirt---because Mommy's house is the only place one can look that ridiculous---sometimes under my dresses like proper bloomers go. Then I could tumble in the grass and hang from the swingset to my heart's delight. And Mommy didn't need to worry about saying, "get down from there, you have a dress on." I love bloomers.
|Bloomers or the clothesline|