There are two things you need to know to understand what I’m about to tell you:
1) Once in a while, I wear a thong. As in that underwear that is mostly loin cloth in the front and string up your butt in the back.
2) I haven’t been alone in a bedroom or bathroom since 1999 when my first child was born.
Knowing all that, it will make perfect sense to you how I came to be standing in nothing but a pair of thong underwear one morning, in front of my three year old.
“Mom, what’s that?”
I’m busy washing my face or brushing my teeth, some mundane task that doesn’t warrant remembering. “What’s what?” I ask, in the way that mothers do when we’re not really listening and just going through the motions of parenting. Oh like you don’t do that.
She giggles. “Thaaaaat,” she says – because of course Thaaaaat is much more explicit than that.
“What? What’s that what?” I’m still going through the morning routine drill and beginning to wonder how long I can drag out this conversation that is not about what the child is going to wear today.
“That. In your butt.”
I’m listening now. And looking, too. Specifically, I’m looking at the small child who is pointing her small finger at my backside.
“Oh, thaaaaat. Thaaaaat is mom’s underwear.”
She cocks her head to the side and I can see she’s trying to put pieces together in her mind. But she’s doing it quietly, so I go back to getting ready.
She breaks into the silence again after a few moments. “Why is your butt eating your underwear?”
“What? It’s not! My butt is not eating anything, thank you very much! It’s just different. It’s underwear that grown ups wear sometimes.” I’m searching for my pants at this point and starting to feel like my daughter has caught me in a leather harness or something.
She stares wordlessly back at me for another moment and then turns and leaves the room.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve finally found a pair of pants.
“Why does mommy’s butt eat…” I grumble. “I’m sure it looks like it probably could devour small children…” I’m muttering to myself still when she stomps back into the room.
She’s wearing nothing but a pair of her own underwear. It is, obviously, not a thong.
She marches up to me and twirls around. She thrusts her tiny little backside in my direction and points at it, hard to emphasize her point.
“This is underwear. See? Underwear. does not. go in butts. Butts. do not. eat. underwear.”
I am speechless in the face of her conviction. It’s all I can do to nod at her, showing her my acceptance of her lesson with my mouth hanging open.
She taps her cheek, a cheek that is clearly covered by an ample stretch of cotton. Again, hard to emphasize her point.
“See? Underwear. On. Butt.”
Triumphant, she marches back out of my bedroom and into her own, where she will no doubt pick out a pair of pink bermuda shorts to wear with her Green Bay Packers jersey.
And I’m left standing there, alone in my room for the first time in years, having just been schooled on proper lingerie by my preschooler.
Popularity: 7% [?]
Posted in Dignity Is Overrated - Funny and Embarrassing Stories, Kids and Parenting - Real Mommy Blogging Tagged: butt, children, conversation, daughter, mom, morning, parenting, thong underwear
Robin Reply:
February 12th, 2009 at 12:16 am
@avitable, Hilarious!!
Reply