When the word is too short.

As we were sitting around the breakfast table, all except my daughter, we were exchanging friendly morning conversation. As my daughter turned the corner to go to my room, my son caught a glimpse of her attire. Underneath his breath, he whispered, "her skirt is to short." she responded with the "quit talking about me line." As we finished our breakfast, and she joined us, I realized she had changed to capris. Of course she was mad and fussed at her brother for commenting on her clothes, but I secretly was thrilled as I wanted to tell her but knew it just might not be the best thing to do. As they rolled out the door to school, she rolled her eyes at me and her brother. Later, that afternoon, I met them at the Dermatologist office for a check-up and she was continuing to fume over everyone else wearing their short skirts, but her. As I quietly listened, her brother responded with a "so-what." She fusses about having a brother who "thinks he knows what is short or not." Wrong thing to do. He then tells her which shorts he thinks she shouldn't wear. As the shock and dismay slaps across her face she tells him to be quiet. I am hoping the waiting room stays empty for the reminder of this discussion. This morning as I stir the Creme of Wheat and check the cinnamon rolls, I see this nice, modest pair of linen shorts come around the corner. She snaps her head around and says, "hopefully, he will approve of this outfit." Oh my, how nice, I never had to say one word. Not even one little "short" word.