I’ve spent the past two weeks organizing a dinner for after work tomorrow. Jeremy’s meeting us there and is thrilled because it’s his favourite restaurant. It’s mine too, as well as several of my coworkers; the food is so addictively good I joke they put crack in it.
Afterward, Jeremy and I are heading to Superstore to buy him at least one new pair of pyjamas. His only pair that are even remotely wearable are the silky pants I gave him. The rest are either way too small or look like the losing end of a fight with a weed whacker. It’s not like I never noticed, I’ve brought him into the pyjama section a couple of times over the past few months and each time he’s barely given them a glance. He wasn’t interested. I don’t think we got close enough to the shelf to riffle through for sizes. We certainly never got anywhere near trying any on.
I figured bringing the shopping trip up in advance might help avoid any surprises and misunderstandings in the store. Jeremy had been horrified when I suggested he get coloured jeans and yelled at me in the middle of Superstore this winter (only to quietly walk back later and pick them up on the way to the cash register). I figured suggesting checking out the women’s pyjama section might get a bit more reaction if it was sprung on him suddenly in public. My ears could not handle more of a reaction.
I got my chance as we were walking across the bare (and quiet) lawn to his counselling appointment.
“We’re going pyjama shopping tomorrow after dinner,” I began and Jeremy nodded.
Phew, I was more than half worried he was going to insist he didn’t want any, holding out for that $50 mail order pair of TARDIS footie pjs from the BBC shop. The sizing is much too vague for mail order.
“I was thinking we’d go to the men’s department first to look and, if they didn’t have anything you liked, we could check out the women’s department. I want to get your idea of what we should do.”
“Pick up a dress, underwear, and makeup,” Jeremy immediately replied. I was reasonably sure he was joking but deadpan humour always confuses me.
“I don’t have the budget for a new wardrobe,” I pointed out. “I’ve got a dress in my closet I never wear that you can have if you want. Does this mean we’ll wing it with shopping tomorrow?”
He agreed that winging it sounded fine and we headed in for his counselling session. What Jeremy doesn’t know is I looked up the pyjamas online. The pair I gave him is from Superstore and they have several similar pairs available, while the men’s department seems to be mainly cotton plaid. I have no idea which Jeremy will prefer. He continually surprises me.
We bounced, laughing, onto the bus after his session and tumbled into our seats.
“Did the driver just call you ma’am?” I asked once we were seated. Jeremy shrugged.
“Yes, he did,” Jeremy informed me as we left; the driver’s “goodbye ma’am oops” trailing along behind us.
“Does getting called ma’am bother you?”
“No,” Jeremy replied.
I don’t know when I’ll have an update on the letter to his teacher that I wrote yesterday. Jeremy accidentally forgot it at home today in his rush to collect his electronics, so it’s still sitting beside the computer.
His electronics consist of speakers (which he took from a broken TV then did something to in order to get them to work), various cords, and his DS (to play music). He took it all with us this evening too and played music the whole time we were outside. Most of the time, he played Radioactive, as sung by Pentatonix and Lindsay Stirling. This wasn’t a surprise; I’m reasonably sure he’s played it at least 200 times since I bought it last month. Best dollar-something I’ve ever spent.
I also promised him I’d share it here because it’s a great song: