I got home last night at about 7pm and saw my daughter sitting in the recliner wearing clothing that I did not recognize. Not only did I not recognize the clothing, but it was quite obviously “boy” clothing–t-shirt with a tractor on it, boy-style shorts, and even boy-style underwear.

I asked my husband, “Where did she get those clothes?”

“They were in her bag,” he said, with a vague wave in the direction of a little backpack. I looked more closely at said backpack and determined that it was an “Elmo” backpack. Anna’s backpack is of the “Nemo” variety.

“Those aren’t her clothes. That’s not her backpack. That backpack belongs to Clayton.” I knew this last fact because the name “CLAYTON” was written in black magic marker across the top of the bag.

Husband glanced over. “Oh.” Then he shrugged. “Hey, at least I brought the right kid home.”

I said something inarticulate.

“It could have been worse,” he said. “Just think: There’s probably a little boy running around in a dress somewhere.”