I recognize Those Jeans

Pulling up in the driveway I see Pop out on his "track," the loop in our front yard, preparing to take one of his many daily walks. "Pop, can you help me bring in these groceries?" I ask. He approaches and I notice the jeans he is wearing. Something doesn't look right.

Trying not to look conspicuous, I examine the pants as he walks away from me. Through the hips they fit rather nicely but I note that they are way too long. Across the left back thigh are smeared, white, finger prints which look like paint. And across the front right thigh are the same white finger prints. There is no mistaking it, those are MY painting jeans he is wearing!

Yesterday I had a sack of clothes going to the thrift store sitting by the front door but I really don't think I put those jeans in that bag. That means that some time while I was out grocery shopping this morning he found his way into my closet, searched through my clothes and found my painting jeans.

Many questions come to mind when dealing with dementia that really have no answer. But the questions do linger. I'm sure he came out of his room this morning dressed in his own jeans. So when and why did he change into mine? In my husband's and my closet are jeans for both him and me. Why did my dad happen to select this particular pair, mine? Also, they were hanging among other obviously women's clothing. Was that not a clue that perhaps he was in the wrong closet or at least on the wrong side of the closet?

Two weeks ago it was my green jacket he was wearing. Today, my painting jeans. Knowing that my dad is obviously no longer thinking clearly I don't want to sound disrespectful. But after these two incidents there are some rather humorous mental pictures that came to my mind ... like ... what's next? My undies?