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…”

“MOMMY STOP THE CAR.  I NEED TO BE STRAPPED IN.   AAAAAAAHHHHH!”

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?”

Sigh.

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.