Comfort clothes

I love to come home after a difficult, stress filled day and get in my comfort clothes.  The kids usually greet me at the door with a big hug and screams of "Daddy's home!"  After listening to all three of my live-in girls welcome me, typically all at once, I make my way back to my room to change clothes.  By the way, I grew up with just one brother.  I can never remember one time when I followed him into his room to continue a conversation while he got dressed, peed, or any other activity usually reserved for the privacy of one person. 

As the girls are still telling me about their day I change into my polyester based gym shorts.  My youngest stops her story briefly: "I see London.  I see France.  I see Daddy's underpants."  I pull up my shorts and turn around to see her head tilted back in laughter with one hand on her stomach and one hand lazily pointing in my direction.  I start after her, "Why don't you get out of here?"  Her and her sister scurry out of my room still laughing.  I then shed my work shirt and sweaty pit stained undershirt, trading them in for one of my favorite shirts that has more holes than a noodle strainer.  Ah...comfort clothes.

On most weekends my routine is to pick up my comfort clothes from off the bedroom floor where they were removed or I grab them off the chair where they were thrown over from the bed.  Getting up before the girls on Saturday's I try my best to cook breakfast for them.  It is a small family tradition but we all seem to enjoy it immensely.  (I get a clue how much they like it on the days I do not serve pancakes) I like cooking the flapjacks in the peace and quiet while drinking my first cup of coffee preparing everything before the girls wake up.  The girls enjoy being served as soon they get up and eating the fun-shaped pancakes.

This one particular morning we had some extras, turkey bacon and Conecuh sausage, to go with the traditional "daddy makes the best pancakes" breakfast.  Before the two youngest girls had crawled out of bed my bride walked in the kitchen to fix her traditional oatmeal.  She approaches me, hugs my back and draws in a big deep breath as I stood in front of the stove frying up the turkey bacon.  In her best 'that smells really good I may have pancakes, sausage, and bacon this morning instead of oatmeal' smiling voice she says excitedly "Your cooking bacon and sausage?!"  

My quick witted response was "Yes but the bacon and sausage is only for those of us that have been good this week.  Those on the bad list have to eat oatmeal.  Let's see, who is on the bad list?"  


Before I was given an opportunity to answer my question my bride in one quick motion releases her hug and jerks my polyester gym shorts and underpants straight down to the floor.  She steps back to admire her work.  Then says, "I will tell you who I know on the moron list!"  


I turn toward her to let her gloat in her accomplishment.  When she takes a breath from laughing after successfully pantsing* her husband at the stove she says "Hey you might want to be careful and not burn your..." I interrupted her "...BREAKFAST.  No I am not going to burn my breakfast!"


I have added a new step to my comfort routine.  I have started tying the draw string on my favorite comfortable polyester shorts.  I never know when I might say something provoking the woman of the house to covertly pants me.
   
* pantsing or used as a verb, pants - removing ones pants without permission of the one wearing said pants.