“Problems cannot be solved at the same level of awareness that created them.” – Albert Einstein

I loved it when my son started to talk.  He is not normally a whiny “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy” kind of kid, so talking meant that I got to hear what was going on in his little head (endlessly fascinating), and figure out the causes of the few attacks of frustration that he does have (most helpful).  Walking is pretty overrated.  Climbing is DEFINITELY overrated, but, as milestones go, talking didn’t really have a downside.

Well, except for the fact that the talking and social filters don’t really develop at the same time.

I started out yesterday morning with a catastrophic clothing failure.  And by now the entire world knows.

My son is a very safety-minded little boy.  He will NOT allow the car to move unless he is properly strapped in his carseat.  And he will let you know this.

Apparently, in my haste to get him and all my lunch/briefcase/purse stuff into the car, I looped the straps over his shoulders, but forgot to properly snap and buckle them.  We made it to the end of the street before his rapidly escalating alarm got my attention.

“Mommy, stop…”

“MOMMY stop…”


I pulled over and jumped out and fixed his distress and told him what a good boy he was to be sure he was being safe.

As I jumped back into the car, a loud tearing sound and a suddenly drafty and loose feeling in the vicinity of my right thigh alerted me that I had experienced a clothing failure of a monumental nature.

Now.  Let me pause here to emphasize something.

I do NOT.  DO NOT.  Wear. Tight. Jeans.

I positively despise anything constricting on my body.

I want that point to be very, very clear to you when I describe the fact that my brand new, worn-only-twice, pair of dove gray Old Navy jeans had split from mid-thigh all the way to the bottom of the front zipper.  It wasn’t something that could be easily hidden just by staying behind a desk all day.  One trip to the restroom and my entire office would know the color and nature of my lingerie.  (And to those living life vicariously – NO I will not tell you what that was.)

So I got back in the car and pointed it back to the driveway.

“Mommy, are we going home?”

“Yes honey, Mommy needs to get a new pair of pants.  These ones are torn.”

“Mommy, did you split your pants?”

“Yes, baby.  I am going to put new ones on.”

“Mommy, did you split your pants WIDE OPEN?”

“Yes, baby.”

When we returned to the car, and were properly buckeled and on our way again, the morning conversation pretty much picked up where it had left off.

“Mommy, do you have on NEW pants?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Because you split your old ones WIDE OPEN?”


I am sure that by now, Harry’s entire preschool knows about the fate of my pants.

I just hope they don’t know the color of my underwear.

May 10th, 2008 at 7:20 am
7 Responses to “Sometimes, even talking is overrated”
  1. 1
    magpie Says:


    Sorry about your pants.

    And mine also lets me know if I forgot to strap her. Which I did once in the day care parking lot, to my chagrin.

  2. 2
    Gerbil Says:

    Jacob has not yet reached the stage where he can alert me when my brain shorts out, but he is adept at finding any holes or gaps in anyone’s clothing, upon which he sticks his hand in and says LOOOOOOOOK!!

    Not so bad when its a shirt, but his father wasn’t so amused to discover the hole in HIS pants.

    I hope your boy didn’t spend the day telling everyone you “split your pants wiiiiiide open”

  3. 3
    Kat Says:

    Yeah, this scares the crap out of me. Not really worried about my own clothing (I have little shame) but some of Paul’s clothing nightmares… that’s another story.

  4. 4
    Deirdre Says:


    Happy Mother’s day ! hehehehehehehehee

  5. 5

    Harry can talk?


  6. 6

    At Sean’s parent-teacher conference last week, I made sure to tell the teacher that whatever Sean said about me, it probably wasn’t true. That he’s a liar. 🙂

  7. 7

    You know, one of my daughter’s teachers said that she wouldn’t believe anything my daughter told her about me, if I wouldn’t believe anything my daughter told me about her. Deal!

    Too bad about the pants — so much better though that it didn’t happen AT work. Yikes.