It's All About The Accessories

I use this blog to document the many mishaps and overall mayhem that occurs in my household on a pretty steady basis. I particularly became interested in this sort of internet memory preservation when I discovered there was a company that will gather my conglomeration of ramblings and organize it into a lovely book that my children can later hide from all potential love interests. Tangible proof, in my opinion, is going to be needed in future years to explain away any unusual physical tics developed as a result of parenting as well as account for the missing enamel on my teeth due to excessive gritting.

In the spirit of memory preserving, I will occasionally revisit past funny recollections of my children to securely record our family follies.

I recently took this picture of Mary Mac which reminded me of an incident that would be a shame not to share:


One morning, I was in a big hurry, a concept that children either do not understand, one that they ignore or purposefully mispronounce. (Did you say furry? Who's furry? Have you seen my stuffed rabbit? You know that he's furry. This one time.... MOOOOOM, he's looking at me!")

At the time they were ages 6, 4, and 2. One was headed to first grade while the others participated in a mother's morning out program at a local church. We were late, I was a bit frazzled and not quite in my right mind just because, well, I had small children.

We were headed out the door and I was doing the final once over. Coordinated outfits - check. Monogrammed backpacks- check. Clean faces, teeth, hands - check. Coats - check, kind of. I looked at Mary Mac and found that she was not wearing the pink corduroy coat that matched her sweet pink corduroy dress that matched her pink shoes which matched her pink bow. (If you are throwing items at your computer screen right now I completely understand. I have now evolved into a seasoned, worn out, priority driven parent so I accept, welcome and deserve your ridicule.)

Mary Mac, aged 2, had decided that she didn't want to wear the coat purchased at a friend's trunk show for a kajillion dollars, but instead, had chosen the church coat of her 4 year old brother. It was a hounds tooth, double breasted coat that swallowed her whole. Her pudgy little hands were hidden by the long, wool sleeves, and the bottom of the coat touched the top of her buckled shoes.

Because we were very late, and my nerves were close to being very shot, I decided it was just not a big deal. In that split second I determined it was not worth the potential monkey fit that would be thrown in the driveway that always caused our three dogs to howl and urinate unnecessarily. I allowed the unusual outer garment to pass the mommy inspection, reasoning that in the big scheme of things, it really was not worth the hassle.

Pasting on my "very calm face that nothing can shatter, shock or shame" I placed Mary Mac and all of her bulk into her car seat with much difficulty, and we headed to glorious school. I successfully dropped off my first grader and then proceeded to the church with my preschoolers.

I arrived at MMO and proudly walked my children inside, holding my head high as I escorted my pillsbury dough girl to her two year old class. Again I was sporting the "very calm face that nothing can shatter, shock or shame" so others would know I was well aware of my daughter's attire and it was fine, I was fine, we were all fine.

As I handed my two year old over the half-door that prevents toddlers from escaping, my stoic resolve broke down somewhat as I began stammering an excuse/explanation for the cumbersome coat my child was wearing. Sweet, blue-haired Mrs. Lucille, with grandchildren of her own, nodded understandably as she took my child from me, and unbuttoned the coat that threatened to drown Mary Mac in gingham-patterned wool.

Instantaneously, our eyes focused on the exact same spot. I began to blink my eyes rapidly, thinking that my household of little people had finally caused hallucinations. No such luck. Around the neck of my angel-faced, blond-headed beauty, like a prized, prominent necklace, was a pair of my

U.N.D.E.R.W.E.A.R.

Not just any underwear. But ratty, elastically challenged, pretend you don't own 'em underwear. The maternity kind left over from the days of pregnancy that you just can't let go of because they are so stinkin' comfortable. Husbands hate them and try to hide them from you but somehow they always make it safely back, beckoned like love sick lingerie to the anxiously awaiting underwear drawer.

With a joyful,wide smile on her face, Mrs. Lucille removed my undergarments from my child's neck, handed them to me and said, "I love the accessories you've chosen for your child's outfit. Should we expect similar adornments tomorrow?"

"No ma'am", I muttered, and quickly walked away with the offending ball of stretched-out cotton overflowing through my fingers, and a shattered, shocked and shamed look upon my face.

I belly laughed all the way home.