Good bye, girly girl.

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I really need to give up trying to be as girly girl as I used to be. It’s a futile attempt with three little boys constantly hovering over my every move.

Earrings get pulled out, necklaces broken, lovely sequined shoes cannot hold their own when dashing after an escapee in the mall.

Jeans, sneakers, sweatshirt and ponytails would much more equip me to tackle my darling offspring whilst they try to jump off the playhouse roof…for the 100th time in a hour.

Pretty much.

Pretty much.

Here’s the thing though. I grew up with only sisters! We had tea parties, and played dress up for endless hours and curled up in corners reading books. My childhood was filled to the brim with blissful adventures of domesticity like playing house and painting finger nails and baking. To this day, all three of us revel in our dangly earrings, sparkly shoes, and swishy dresses. And to boot, I have my dear daughter who aches for all of these things in excess but like me, is constantly rudely brought back to the reality of the fact that we can’t have them as long and Larry, Moe, and Curly are running circles around us.

Point in case: the Infamous Sunday Mass Debacle.


You ready for this one?

Well. To begin.

It’s not like I’m completely unaware that wearing stockings, heels and a flowy dress is a THREAT TO HUMANITY, or just, to my sons’ happiness… it’s simply that I had forgotten.

It had been SO LONG. So long since Jack was the toddler who dragged his rubber soled shoes down the back of my BRAND NEW (no. LITERALLY bought them on the way to church) new pantyhose, as I knelt in church and he sat on the pew behind me.

Dragggggg. Rippppp. Right before going up to communion.

It had been equally as long since the time Jack pulled down my jersey knit skirt as he waited on line behind me while, again, going up for communion. (Thank goodness I was wearing a slip!!!)

After such incidents as these, I had actually adjusted my Sunday attire to leggings (un-rippable by rubber soled boys shoes) and flats, and dresses (attached to my shoulders that cannot be yanked down)

For as long as I can seasonally, I never wear stockings anymore. Because otherwise I figured it would be easier to turn over my bank account information to Walgreens at the rate I was needing to replace pantyhose.

Anyway.  My pregnancy hormone ladened brain seems to have forgotten the ‘whys we dos what we dos‘ when we have little boys in tow. And on a particularly beautiful, sunny, breezy, Sunday I went to Walgreens, bought the silkiest stockings, put on my girly heels, and the flowiest chiffon dress in my closet.

It was a pink chiffon dress. If you must know.

It was lovely. And between the chiffon, the silky hose, the heels and my pearls (and the new pregnancy!) I was all girly girled up and bubbling over with feminity (and naivety) as we walked into Mass.

I feel pretty....

I feel pretty….

We almost made it to the Gospel when Charlie began to not resist himself. He swished my dress a few times, and I primly leant over and whispered to him to leave Mommy’s dress alone.

He busied himself with something in my purse, then coyly wiggled his way back to me and slid his hand up and down the apparently irresistible stockings and flounced the back of my skirt up a bit. Not too high, just above my knees, but still not ok.

Blushing, I again, lowered my self ever so precariously in my  heels to his height and gave him “the eyes” while asking him to please not do that to Mommy’s dress.

Of course, he did it again the next time I stood up. Only this time, a wee bit higher than the previous time. About thigh height now. I noted that there was a family with hormone ridden teen aged boys sitting directly in the pew behind us, and upped my serious ‘stop it’ game with Charlie.

I went the ‘what did I just say’ route, with the bulging Stanley eyes, and some shameless bribery with tic tacs.



He knew I meant business.

Yet clearly, boys being faced with silky stockings and flowy dresses find it just far too tempting. Even when they are 4.

(things really  don’t ever change much for them, do they? How different is a 4 year old boy from a 30 year old boy?)

We managed to make it another five minutes or so, until the big reveal happened.

We all stood for the Our Father, after being safely hidden by my pew kneeling for a bit. I really had felt we’d have no more issues the rest of Mass.

Our Father started wrapping up and we were gearing up for the Sign of Peace. (Do they seriously plan the timing of these things?!)

When, faster than anything, Charlie grabbed the back of my beautiful, flowy, pink chiffon dress with both hands and parachuted it up as high as it could go, let go and let it fall down to his sheer delight.

Completely and totally exposing, um, all of anything that was underneath.

Nothing left to the imagination there, folks. Lucky for me I was wearing the most blah pair of Hanes Her Way that has been ever invented.

Did I mention there was an 18 year old sitting directly behind me?

And that we were just about to exchange the sign of peace?

How’s that for humility?



So, we had a funeral for my panty hose. I retired the chiffon dress for the time being. I now have buckled down and have to view my clothes much more tactically adaptable to my environment as opposed to pretty and fashionable.  Football gear might be my safest bet at this point.

In any case, take this as a warning all you moms of little boys. Don’t let your derrière be the next unsuspecting victim of a toddler’s indiscretions, especially in the middle of Mass.

And if a pink chiffon dress and silky stockings lure you into some delusional thinking, I tell you with certainty it lies! Run the other way!

Nothing is worth loosing your dignity! Abort mission and succumb to to the sneakers and sweatshirts!

Of course I’m writing all this as a reminder to myself.

You know, the next time (in like a year) I find myself lured into buying silky stockings at Walgreens.









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3 thoughts on “Good bye, girly girl.

  1. Save the silking stockings and pink dress for dinner out with hubby – remember he will love it in a differentt way. Love you stories

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