How Ya Gonna Clothe 'Em Down On The Farm

The Pony is in the doghouse. Not all the way in. Just his front hooves and his ducked head. He will re-emerge as soon as the shaming wears off.

We stopped by The Devil's Playground this afternoon to get a jump on the weekly shopping, and to buy The Pony some black shoes to wear with his band uniform. I also made him pick out a pair of pants, because he insists on wearing shorts to school in below-freezing weather. That's not healthy for a growing Pony.

In the middle of the main aisle I spotted a rack of hooded sweatshirts. The Pony also refuses to wear a coat. He has a hooded sweatshirt, but I noticed that it is too small. He wears it on his daily egg-hunt, and to feed the goats while Farmer H is away on business. The hooded sweatshirt is not flattering to the gangly Pony. He's grown since last year. It looks like a Little Lord Fauntleroy jacket.

I told The Pony to pick out a sweatshirt. He declined. "But I already have TWO sweatshirts."

"They're too small."

"Uh uh. One of them is too small. I started wearing the bigger one. It fits me just right."

I took his word for it. Assuming that the one I saw him in was the too-small sweatshirt. We went on our merry way to the sorely-lacking-in-cargo-style men's pants department. Of course you know what happened. We arrived home, and The Pony donned his sweatshirt for egging. "See? I told you it fit me."

The sweatshirt he claimed as the better, fitting, tailored-to-his-physique sweatshirt was the one I had seen. It looked not only like a Little Lord Fauntleroy jacket, but a LLFJ that had been washed in hot water and dried on the "High Heat-cotton" setting.

Of course there will be none of the special sweatshirts left when I go back. The Devil works in obvious ways.