Red Panties

I haven’t totally forgotten about my blog. In fact, I want to blog daily but everything I have to say is WAY T.M.I. Well, my entire blog is TOO MUCH INFO, but even I have to draw the line at SOME THINGS.

FOR example- some friends and I had a Lingerie Shower for Valentines  (how I would love to post pictures but that would be social suicide. I’ve already had people tell me they are afraid our conversations will show up on my blog. WHICH I have never done! I have my own internal and probably better left that way crap to share). You know, once you have kids you just GRASP for excuses to get together with other girls, buy things that don’t say “Maternity” or have elastic waist bands. And so we were each given a name and size of a lady and we set off to buy something “pretty.”

I had fun putting my little gift together and it is absolutely KILLING me not to share details- but I wrote a poem to go along with it and everything. AnY-wAy- my take home gift was some hot mama red panties (several pair) and matching brazier.

Okay- I haven’t even gotten to the EXAMPLE of the TMI part and I feel like I’ve already passed the line I’m supposed to be setting. So you should not keep reading if your face is already contorted into a “OH MY HECK- what is WRONG with this girl?!?” (Cause let me tell you now. Three kids up in this house with a husband scarcer than me cooking? A LOT is WRONG with this girl).

Like every NORMAL person does after they get something new, I had to try my things on. Simply for size. (like you can even return panties if they don’t fit. At least I HOPE you can’t)! Ugh. I won’t share the mental image I just had. And, like a NORMAL mom, I can’t get a half ounce of privacy. In barges Brooklyn just as I’m staring at the pile of cottage cheese in the mirror where my butt once sat.

“Um MOM! WHAT are you WEARING?” And what am I supposed to say to my 3 year old?

“P-panties?” I stammer hoping she’ll say, “Okie dokie. “ and find a Barbie to mutilate. But get real. It’s Brooklyn. The most observant, scrutinizing child on the face of the planet.

“Um, MOM,” she starts in her matter-of-fact mother voice, “you are TOO big for those panties. WHY are you wearing them?” Trapped like a mouse with his little squished head still clutching the cheese, I said the first thing that came to my mind. Which is NEVER a good thing in MY experience. “These are Mommy’s work-out panties.”  She then proceeded to grab at them. “WHAT are you DOING?” I half shrieked. “You have a really big wedgie.” I took them off, stuffed them in my drawer and hoped she forgot about them.

Fast forward two weeks. Brooklyn FLEW into the kitchen holding a red pair of panties. “MOMMAY! Look! I just found your work panties! They were on your bed!” (okay- that sounds bad- but they were in the pile of CLEAN laundry on my bed). “Work-OUT panties,” I corrected under my breath. I’m sure she’ll be telling her Sunday school class that her mom has red work panties and everyone will know I’m a stripper/prostitute on the weekends.   AWESOME.