Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Its January and I’m in love with….routine.
I know, super inspiring.
In the spirit of New Year Resolutions and goal charting (you know who you are…) I’m praising the comforts of the Expected. Its just been eons since we’ve visited the Land of Regular, and I am smitten with the blank weekly calendar perched on my fridge. No dinners. No recitals. No duties. At the end of the day, it can really be the end of the day(if you ignore the 4 loads of laundry sitting next to the washer..). The hum of the dishwasher at 7:00 has been music to my ears and the pressure to make “one more batch” of cookies, has lifted.
Not that I didn’t enjoy the crazy-making traditions of the holidays. This year, we carved out an entire day for just our immediate family (isn’t this a funny reality…) and so the pressure was on to initiate some new traditions. Chocolate Raspberry Bread Pudding and Homemade Ice Cream. A Christmas ham (its not accidental that many of our traditions focus on food….). Alabama Christmas via a worn out cassette…(this is a non-negotiable to my husband’s delight). I really wanted to claim Something as our own. Some little thing that belongs to our house during the holidays. Something tangible to trace back to each year of Christmas mayhem… ahem, I mean, magic.
Little did I know that our new family tradition apparently comes in the form of indecent exposure.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. You don’t know how much I would love to be fabricating this one.
Its Christmas Eve. Kids are in newly purchased tights. Young boys are sporting a tad too much hair gel and Dad’s cologne. And I have talked myself into wearing the little black dress on the hanger. Since my life is a little short on black-tie affairs, its been a while since I have tried this sucker on….and I’m already feeling a little anxious about it.
The smarter half of my brain yells: “Black pants! For heaven’s sake, stick to the damn Black pants and glitter sweater!!!”. It’s the pre-Church glass of wine that made me brave….and sorry.
Lets just say it’s a little fitted for a small Lutheran church of 45 people. After spending a good twenty minutes of profane shoving, I decide the industrial strength Control Top pantyhose will have to prove their self-proclaimed fortitude, and I go sans underwear. Frankly, there was no going back, even if I wanted to. Think robot legs. Strangled, caged, mama legs. They needed to recover from the first assault…..couldn’t even contemplate another round.
Now, Lycra is a beautiful thing, and once upright, the dress is a go. Off to the smallest, sweetest little southwestern MN church. You actually cross “Cherry Creek” and pass a covered bridge. Lovely. Peace on Earth. Then we arrive.
“Filing in” would be a generous description, I think my middle son almost took out an elderly couple while straddling a decorative Christmas pot, but we did find our way into the church with all of our pieces. It was a little tight…..the pew, and the dress. In fact, it was so crowded that even the middle aged children were accidently bumped up onto adult laps and we all breathed easier when it was time to stand and sing. Bags of cheerios were dropped. Hymnals were closed just a little too aggressively, and yet, we were almost done.
As was my five year old daughter. Maybe it was the proximity of her brother’s chili cheese breath, maybe it was rogue bobby pin, but her “inside voice” was long gone and the she-devil had emerged. I try to ignore. Try to pass her to an open lap of a relative.
I am out-witted in .5 seconds when she takes the bottom of my dress and lifts it up to my armpits.
It’s tight and it has no intention of falling back down to place.
Not even a helpful “drape”.
I’m packed into a pew like a sardine, two year old on my control topped waist, with my Christmas dress up around my armpits and ass in full bloom for the family behind us. I literally cannot move to fix it. After a fruitless frantic shuffle to loosen its grip, I just sit my cheeks down on the cold pew and nod my head. My black pants would never have betrayed me.
I sheepishly wave good-bye to the wide-eyed row behind us and dart like and angry bird for the coat room.
So, in these quiet January days when I face no wardrobe malfunctions and can easily justify too many days in pajama pants, I can giggle. It was a highlight for the kids (maybe not so much for the nice family behind us….): Mom’s ass joyfully displayed at church. Truthfully, nothing could be better for my eight year old boy. I still find him giggling to himself in the back of the van. Hey, Christmas cheer is Christmas cheer. The best traditions are never planned. You’ve gotta start somewhere…….