Humiliation, thy name is mother.

Some of you may remember this post.
It’s a 6 word description of my life, but really speaks about my life as a mother.

Most days my memoir is
Not what I imagined. Better. More.

Some days it’s
I did not expect. Utter. Humiliation.

Because sometimes being a mother makes for some seriously humiliating situations. I’ve been pooped on, peed on, coughed on, bled on, and had snot wiped all over me. I’ve had personal stories revealed, family secrets exposed and inaccurate information distributed. All humiliating instances I can roll with, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and that line is firmly placed where I’m wearing clothing. Go ahead and embarrass me in public, but PLEASE, make sure I have my clothes on, that I can move all of my limbs, and that there is an escape route. Because I really cannot stop thinking about being exposed to the Banana Republic shoppers in my underclothing on Saturday, with no escape route and my finger wedged in the door hinge. All compliments of my twins. So here is my advice.

Never, ever, ever under any circumstance take your twins into a dressing room with you and park them next to the door, wedging yourself into the room.

Never, ever, ever grab the inside hinge of the door to try to close it when it has been flung open by your children and you are in your underclothing. Because then your wedding ring might get stuck in the hinge when you are trying futilely to close the door and the fitting room attendant tries to help. And then you’d be stuck in your under clothing right by the mirror that reflects down the whole dressing room with no way to close the door and no where to hide.

Just then, you might be mortified. And want to crawl into a hole and WISH you were having a nightmare.

And if I were you, I’d stick to trying on bathing suits when you are alone. You just never know.

 

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