Smiling Mom

So I’ve been slowly trying to upgrade my work war­drobe in an attempt to look more pro­fes­sio­nal.  I’ve purcha­sed a few new shoes, shirts, and work pants.  A few weeks ago, I was chec­king myself out in the mirror at work just as I was exi­ting the bath­room and noti­ced something quite horrible.

Panty lines.

Like, as in Granny Panty lines.

Not good.

That was the day that I deci­ded it was time to try out the thong, again.  They’ve never been com­for­ta­ble, yet I seem to remem­ber hea­ring, somewhere, that they could be.

And so I began my mis­sion to find the per­fect thong, for cheap.

My search took me to Kohls where I found signs that said things like, “Barely There.” or “You’ll never know they are on!” and, “No panty lines!”

That soun­ded good to me, so I began to investigate.

The fairly benign loo­king pan­ties loo­ked really thin.

check.

No tag.

check.

Cot­tonish.

check.

Inex­pen­sive.

check.

I was willing to try fork over the cash to these girls out. But just to be sure, I bought a pair that was a size big­ger than I would usually buy.  (THE KEY TO A COMFORTABLE THONG, I dis­co­ve­red!! Trust me girls!)

I got home, washed them, and then tried them out.

The result?  I swear.  It’s like I’m not even wea­ring under­wear.  They are so comfortable.

AND no panty lines!!

I began strut­ting around the house, work, and play with an extra skip in my step and bounce in my errr butt.

Fee­ling good, I began chan­ging out of my work pants and into my sweats as I bent over, barely cove­red with my newly don­ned thong, when my son said, “Wooo Mom, your butt has really got­ten BIG!!”

.…

Um, excuse me?  Oh no you didn’t!!  I tur­ned around and asked for him to repeat himself.

And he did.

So, as any good mom would do, I wal­ked up to him, smac­ked him in the back of his head, and promptly chan­ged back into my granny panties.

Ahem.

Kids.

I’m telling you, he is wrong.  My butt is NOT get­ting big­ger…I think.…I just feel more com­for­ta­ble in a big­ger size panty.… I swear! It’s not my butt… it’s the cut.  I hope.

Des­pite the size of my rear, I’m thri­lled with my new find and my lack of lines.

And there you have it folks… my first post in months, about my booty.  Gotta love that!

Should I really be so amu­sed that I con­ti­nue to cap­ture moments like these on video?  When I push record, I’m in no way thin­king, “Awww, what cute kid­dos I have.”

NOooo, I’m more like thin­king, “Oh my gosh.  This is the BEST leve­rage EVER!!  My son will KILL me for this in 12 years time.”  Heh!

You know you’re a mom when your son runs out of his room, drops his pants, bends over, spreads his cheeks and says, “Mom, my butt hole tic­kles and I can’t get it to stop.”

What the frick??  Seriously?

My solu­tion?  I took his pajama bot­toms, loo­ped my fin­ger under the fabric and wiped his butt.  I know, classy!

Unfor­tu­na­tely it was still tic­kling, so I told him to go into the bath­room and wipe again.  BC then informs me that it’s my fault that his butt was tic­kling because I didn’t wipe him good enough earlier.

My fault?  That my 4 year old’s butt was tickling??

Again…what the frick??

Once the pro­blem was sol­ved he ran back out to the living room to drop trough and show me his newly clea­ned butt.  At this point I was simply laughing too hard to check it again.

Seriously, this was not in the han­dout when I deci­ded to forgo birth con­trol and become a mother!

In our house we out­law words as often as we chan­ged our under­wear… almost every day.

The basics have been ban­ned. You know, “What the hell” and “Damn it”. Even “Shit,” and “Oh my God!” are out.

But DAMage…not out. As pas­sio­na­tely as BC tells me that it IS a bad word, I just don’t buy it. Yup, DAMage gets to stay.

Ya, we’re awful parents like that!

You know, the fact that our kids even know those phra­ses is a whole other topic that I pro­bably shouldn’t get into today.

Ahem. But I digress.

“Shut up” and “Stu­pid” are crowd favo­ri­tes here in the Bay Area.

But in our house? Yup. BANNED.

Poopyhead, Meany­PoopyHead, HeadyHeadyPoopyHead.

TOSSED like last night’s cookies.

A recent crowd favo­rite, “Goo­ber.” GONE.

“What the HELL??” You might ask.

I know! Goo­ber, of all words?

It was cute and all until BC got a timeout at the gym for shou­ting , “You’re such a goo­ber!!” at a sweet little girl, promptly hur­ting her feelings.

OUT.

But the word that’s crept into our family’s mains­tream voca­bu­lary as quickly as my kids’ nails grow is DUH.

It was funny, like twice, which is pre­ci­sely the rea­son that per­sis­tent little bug­ger has stuck around so long.

It’s always a soli­di­fier when Mommy laughs her head off at her dar­ling kids’ inap­pro­priate behavior.

I’m not saying I DID that…but if I were to have been such a STUPID mommy, it might explain why my kids are so attached THAT word.

Hypothe­ti­cal, of course.

Ahem.

Any­way, DUH is GONE. OUT. BYE BYE. Never to be heard from again.

…Until one day when I asked BC to put something on the sink.

“I already did that Mommy!! THE”

Excuse me??

THE??

As in DUH??

You gotta be kid­ding me!!??

So now I’m con­si­de­ring dum­ping one more word from our every­day life.

The.

But how can I get by without my the? It’s a handy stand by when I’m trying talk about THE situa­tion at hand. Or when THE play­room is a mess and when I’ve asked my kids to clean it for THE eigh­teenth time.

X-ing out THE can really F*CK things up around here.

Wait. No, scratch that last sen­tence. F*UCK is auto­ma­ti­cally pla­ced on the BANNED list of family life.

But you already knew that, didn’t you.…THE!!