The shirt off his back

My husband isn't a metro-sexual. Thank god. He doesn't much worry about the brand of his clothes. And his showers aren't long. But there is, however, one thing that he is rather fastidious about: his work shirts. He is a stickler about this part of his daily uniform. His button-downs must be well-ironed, well cut, and of quality cotton. The stripes, checks, and solids hang stiffly in rows of (mostly blue) in his closet. They are rather iconic in our household. They remind me of my husband and Georgia of her Daddy. Just seeing one in the laundry room results in a high pitched squeal, "Daddddddeee!"

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!"