I fully-unintentionally semi-mooned a law enforcement officer this morning.
Dave and I have a pair of sweatpants we both wear. It’s a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants scenario. I’m 45 pounds heavier than him, so I’m America Ferrera. I won’t even make this weird by comparing my husband to a woman, but I think he ends up being the chick from Joan of Arcadia. Because he’s definitely not Blake Lively. And he’s not the one from Gilmore Girls, either.
This morning, my only pair of pants were in the washing machine. Dave accidentally sprinkled my pair of jeans with furniture paint. I forgot to switch the laundry last night, because I fell asleep next to a 6-year-old who included all the planets in his nighttime prayers. As well as a catalogue of all Super Mario Bros. characters and the known Angry Birds universe.
“Oh, shoot! I don’t have any pants!” It dawned on me with 7 minutes before estimated time of departure. “Think, think, think, Lyndse!” And I made a choice that smacked my mom’s advice of 30 years in the face: You shouldn’t wear holey clothes in public.
Our magical sweatpants have a hole in them. And, it’s in the worst place. Crotch. But not right where all the seams meet, because that would be nearly impossible to see unless I was doing cartwheels in the parking lot. No, the hole is near the crotch, but enough onto the leg that I was going to show a bit of my lily white thigh at preschool drop-off.
Time was up. Decision made. I couldn’t leave the house pantless, so sweatpants won. I laced up my running shoes, which have never seen an actual treadmill or running event, to imply that my sweatpants were possibly on their way to a workout. And my PTO shirt. Because a flagrant display of school spirit up top just might save the disaster below my waist.
It wasn’t until I did my full squat to the ground, lowering Adelaide’s 55 pound wheelchair from the van to the parking lot asphalt, that I realized why my mother always knows best. The quarter-sized hole stretched to the size of a small flapjack. The ones you buy in the freezer section before you have bills and kids and can no longer afford overpriced undersized toaster pancakes. Part of my butt cheek was now seeing its first light of day since I was a toddler playing in a kiddie pool.
It could’ve been worse. My pants could’ve fallen off. But I think blinding a local civil servant isn’t my proudest moment.
To add insult to his eye injury, my entire minivan was full of blatant fashion violations.
Bess refused to take off her nightgown this morning, so I wrangled her into some leggings. She and Chicken Cocker were carried out to the van amid protests from the kindergarten sibling accusing me of showing favoritism. He wasn’t allowed to wear his Transformers pajamas out of the house. How dare I allow this injustice?
This was her first time back to school since Spring Break. She’s been having trouble sleeping more than 6 hours a night. Which means I’ve been sleeping about 4 hours a night. I don’t care about Greece or soccer camp or boys. I just wish my magical pants could get me more sleep and patch their own crotch holes and figure out how to Spring Clean with three kids.