There are expletives coming from the coat closet. I can’t see around the corner, but I’m pretty sure my husband has crawled all the way in there looking for one of his twelve pairs of golf shoes. Apparently, he’s not having much luck, because what I *can* see from around the corner is an ever-growing mountain of mismatched shoes and coats flying out of the closet under the stairs. It probably doesn’t help that the light burned out in there and hasn’t been replaced yet.
Part of me wants to go pull the door shut and tell him that if Harry Potter could manage in the closet under the stairs, he can too. But another part of me knows that is way funnier in my head than if I were to actually, say, do it.
Well, I guess it’s that time. The end of the summer, when I swore to myself that I would revisit the shoes and minimize all of the summer sandals to make room for the boots, slippers, and running shoes we stocked up on last weekend. And maybe while I’m in there I’ll find the coats that I know actually fit my children and not these little ones that show their bellies, which they insist are still perfectly comfortable.
I’m going in. If you don’t hear from me for a couple of days, send search and rescue.