Please read previous post before reading this one

. . . because you'll see things in a different light.

Last night, Alec asked if I'd seen his U of O sweatshirt and my first thought was, "Yeah, he probably secretly thinks I did something with it along with David's scarf." So I said no, although I did help him look for it. We didn't find it. So he called his cute mother-in-law (hi, Karin!) and SHE hadn't seen it. So then he wondered if he left it at one of the many eating establishments we've frequented in the past few weeks. Still, no sweatshirt.

"Here's the thing, Mom," he said. "I distinctly remember draping it over the back of a chair. I thought it was one of the chairs in the dining room."

And I thought to myself DON'T JUDGE ME. I DIDN'T STEAL YOUR SWEATSHIRT. AND I DIDN'T STEAL Q'S FRIEND'S SCARF EITHER.

Later I went to my closet to find something. And guess what was hanging up there. And suddenly I remembered! I found it draped over the back of the dining room shirt and I hung it up in my closet because I thought it was the new sweatshirt Sally had given me for Christmas.

They're the same color. Except that Alec's sweatshirt is big and green and has a big yellow "O" on it whereas my new sweatshirt is gray and O-less.

But whatever. The point is they're both freaking sweatshirts. A girl can get confused.

How kids view parents: the stages

Not too long I gave Q. a grey knit unisex-y scarf of mine because he liked it. My friend Nancy bought it at the Sundance outlet and gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago--and really it's quite an attractive neckwrap. You put it on and immediately you feel all uber-cool and Robert Redford-y. I'm happy to share it with my youngest son, who is one of the handsomest, nicest boys in the world.

Anyhoodle! This morning on our way home from the airport where we deposited London-bound Geoffrey, Q. asked if I was SURE the scarf had been mine in the first place.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling mildly annoyed.

He then wondered--politely, carefully, but nonetheless outloudly--if I'd gotten mixed up. Maybe I'd had a scarf similar to the one I'd given him that wasn't actually the one I'd given him? Was that possible?

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" I asked, now feeling NOT mildly annoyed.

He explained that his friend David had lost a scarf at our house, and when he saw Q.'s Sundance outlet scarf--the one Nancy gave me for Christmas and I SHOULD KNOW BECAUSE I WAS THERE WHEN SHE GAVE IT TO ME--David suggested it was the one he'd misplaced.

"ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF STEALING SCARVES FROM YOUR FRIENDS?" I asked. "BECAUSE DUDE I HAVE WAY BETTER, MORE WORTHWHILE THINGS TO DO IN THIS LIFE THEN STEAL SCARVES FROM YOUR FRIENDS." (Such as reading online about how one of the Kardashians delivered her own baby, for instance. But whatevs.)

By now Q. was thoroughly sorry he'd brought up the subject but still. I could tell I hadn't convinced him and do you know why? Because all my kids think I'm crazy anyway, which brings me to the title subject. When your kids are babies, they kinda worship you. And then when they're a little older they're embarrassed about you. And then after that they just think you're nuts. They love you, but they think you're nuts. This was a point Louise made in her brilliant talk in church a few weeks ago. She should post it so you can read it.

Okay. Thank you for listening. Meanwhile, please ex-squeeze me while I go steal me some scarves.