I can always tell when my daughter’s schedule gets too busy. She doesn’t take the time to put her clothes away, so her clean clothes are deposited into a growing pile over the course of a couple of weeks. Eventually, the pile begins to rival Mt. Everest until she has time, and the items are wrangled, sorted, and deposited in their proper locations.

Admittedly, the past few weeks have been crazier than usual with too many activities, long term assignments, and planning for the months ahead. With the number of hectic weekends, her bedroom recently required some mountain-taming.

Yesterday, after sleeping off her 21 hour day on Saturday, she tackled the task of taming the mountainous terrains spreading across her bedroom floor. She started with her closet, which needed a bit of organizing to accommodate the extra articles of clothing she had acquired from her step-sister on a recent visit. She sorted through all her clothes; deposited the too-small items on my bed; asked for extra hangers; and got everything sorted and put away. When she was done, she was pleased with her work.

“Hey, Mom, come look at my closet!” While I was anxious to see the result, in retrospect, one might think that inviting me would not be such a good suggestion, given the circumstances.

“Nice!” I complimented her effort. “It looks great!” But then I spotted something peeking out from between the plaid flannel—a sleeve of white lace hung proudly, as if it belonged there. “Oh hey, that’s my shirt,” I pointed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, drawing out the word in hesitation. “I gave everything else back, but that’s pretty much mine now.”

“That’s interesting.” I paused, waiting for her to fill in with–oh, I don’t know, a request maybe? Nothing. “I don’t remember giving that shirt to you.”

“Um… okay, I stole it,” she admitted. “But you’re welcome to borrow it any time!”

I’m welcome to borrow it. My shirt. Of course.