Tyler glanced down at my feet. "Mommy, you need new shoes. Your shoes are too small."
At first I started into a monologue about how grownups' feet eventually stop growing (excluding pregnancy, sadly), and how my shoes really fit just fine. But then I thought better of it.
Silly me.
"You're right, Tyler. Go tell Daddy. Mommy needs new shoes."
"Daddy? Daddy? Daddy! Mommy needs new shoes. Her shoes are too small."
Robb glanced at me, with my shoulders pulled up and my palms open: the nonverbal signal for, "What? He said it. Not me."
"Nice try, Mommy."
It was worth a shot.
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