When I got home from an all-day meeting on Friday, Husband was wearing one of my t-shirts. Not one of my extra-large unisex t-shirts, but one of my trim-fitting Nike for Women t-shirts. It was playing peek-a-boo with his belly button.

“Why are you wearing that?” I asked.

“Well, I had to give Aitch a bath before I took him to the doctor this afternoon…”

Uh-oh.

“…so I took off the t-shirt I was wearing so it wouldn’t get wet. Then as we were getting ready to leave the house I threw it on, but I must have grabbed the wrong one and didn’t realize it until I was in the car.”

“You mean you wore that to see the pediatrician?”

“Well, I explained to them what happened, and also that we were in a hurry so I forgot Aitch’s shoes.”

“You took him to the pediatrician with no shoes, and you were wearing that?!”

Oh my God. I can just hear the office nurses yukking it up about the clueless dad who could barely dress himself or his son. The funny thing is that Husband is actually perfectly capable of and practiced at caring for Aitch. He’s not a dad who “helps”; he just does. He’s responsible for half of Aitch’s care when I’m around, and all of it when I’m gone, and he doesn’t need to be cajoled or threatened or nagged into doing it either. He is not one of those dads who abandons his wife for the second shift.

He is just the teeniest bit absent-minded, though.

I asked Husband if I could blog about this incident, and he grudgingly assented, but he warned me, “You need some new fodder.”

Happy fodder’s day, honey.