“I didn’t pack pants.” I. didn’t. pack. pants.
I packed twelve changes of clothing, slippers, bathrobes, and a variety of car toys for the girls. But I did not pack myself pants.
Yes, I had a pair of sweatpants that were not meant to be seen by anyone who had no choice but to be stuck with me and a pair of leggings so worn that my ass was one rogue thread away from a nice summer breeze. But I had no actual pants to wear as I walked the halls of Great Wolf Lodge.
My husband looked at me with an eyebrow raised and I kind of wanted to pluck it off of his face. “How do you not remember pants?” asks he who only worried about packing for one human—and a human who wouldn’t have a total meltdown if he forgot something “essential” like the correct pair of patterned socks.