After Sid got dressed one morning this week, she had to go to the bathroom. When she was done, she got off the toilet and hollered for some wiping assistance. (I know that I’ll miss so much about parenting small children, but I’m almost certain that ass-wiping will not fall into the category of things missed.)
“Wow, this is some underwear,” M called out as he was attending to her backside.
“Huh?”
“I didn’t know thongs were allowed in this house,” he said. (I am not a believer in the thong. I do not enjoy the sensation of an all-day wedgy and honestly, all you have to do is catch a glimpse of yourself from behind wearing one of those things and you’ll never put on one again.)
As far as I knew, Sidney did not own a thong, but that didn’t mean that one hadn’t worked its way into her underwear drawer. Things like that have a way of happening around here.
Later, when she went again, I went to wipe her and saw what M had been talking about. I had put her underwear on wrong that morning and the skinny part was wedged in her chubby three year old tush. It was pretty adorable. I’d put up a picture, but I worry about running afoul of the child porn peeps.
It did not help matters that the underwear in question was mildly tarty looking to begin with: it was black bikini underwear with hot pink bows.
You may be wondering: What three year old has black bikini undies? In my defense, I purchased them in a pinch when we were on vacation this summer when she did what all toddlers do when you forget to bring spare clothes: she peed all over herself and possibly all over the person next to her. We were out for the day in Savannah, Georgia. (We’d mistakenly thought the kids would enjoy a trolley ride through old Savannah. Shocking that they didn’t revel in the architectural detail and instead pissed and moaned ever so loudly because they didn’t have iPods with them. Embarrassment is something I know well, but this really took the cake. Old Southern people do not appreciate badly behaved children.)
I ran into a GAP and bought the undies. I knew they were tarty, really I did, but I was desperate. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them, but I did shudder every time I saw them.
Luckily for me, those underpants are no more. It turns out she had explosive diarrhea (you’re welcome) in preschool and managed to crap all over them as well as all over her spare pair.
“I hope it’s ok, but we threw them out,” apologized her teachers.
No worries at all. Now I don’t have to. I just hope they were too busy wading in toddler crap to notice them. I don’t mind being called out for allowing Sid to bring a pacifier to school or for not knowing that she was sneaking junk food in her lunch box, but I’ll be damned if it get outs that I’m supplying my three year old with slutty black thongs.
I do have standards, you know.