But the shirts don't last long. It seems my husband spends a lot of time with his elbows on desks and conference room tables, resulting in holes around his funny bone. When he went to toss the latest checkered victim in the "get rid of me" pile, Georgia again lovingly squealed, "Daddy." I was bummed. This particular shirt happened to be our favorite. I didn't want to see it go. And that was when the idea came. I could please Georgia and do something "green." Recycle. And that is when Daddy's shirt became Georgia's blouse.
And now my little girl carries a part of her Papai around with her all day. "Daadddeeee!"