Unders

The months between the arrivals of child #2 and child #3 are a blurry, sleepy mess. A quick timeline: in May we found out Mister was joining us; in June my husband took a new job and we found out Peanut would be party-crashing sometime in February; in August I turned in my keys at my full-time job and got on an airplane to Ethiopia.

Once home with our son, my every thought was directed towards nurturing the bonds in our new little family. This left me generally incapacitated in regard to pesky household duties like making sure there was food, soap and socks to go around. Since we weren’t entertaining much (citing attachment as our excuse to be reclusive) I don’t think that anyone would have known that I was barely surviving my new post as stay-at-home mom were it not for the unfortunate incident with the velour, maternity tracksuit.

I would remind myself every morning that the Jones mean nothing to me, repeating the mantra of pony-tail-and-baseball-cap moms everywhere as I brushed my teeth. The chant would continue as I fruitlessly searched for a match in the wicker basket of sock purgatory where hundreds of fine socks waited and prayed to be redeemed. On this particular morning we arrived at preschool early enough to sit and chat with the mothers who wear clean clothes. They were always so kind to me, and until the velour-maternity-tracksuit incident I thought it was because they found me clever and refreshing. I now understand that my existence as new-comer/hopeless case mustered up feelings of charity, like a skinny, wet puppy at the back door in November.

We chatted and watched the children, rising at the greeting of the sunny teachers to sign our children in and kiss them good-bye. While waddling around, being clever and refreshing, I was interrupted by the voice of one of the teachers behind me. I could see her pulling on something, arm-over-arm, as if she were an ancient fisherman pulling in a promising catch. “I think you have something on your back,” she said to me. I turned to see a gigantic pair of white, maternity underwear held in front of my face. They had been attached to the back of my black tracksuit. This is because I had pulled the suit in haste from the dryer where it had likely sat for days getting cozy with the hideous unders. I laughed, pretending it was somebody else who had been smiling, chatting and telling stories for twenty minutes with a parachute on their back.

There was only one thing to do: sew up the legs of my panties, and use them for a grocery bag, maybe adding a strap made out of unmatched socks for interest and flair.

“The fear of the Lord teaches a man wisdom, and humility comes before honor.” Proverbs 15:33