Posted by Duff

Now that I’m the mother of both a daughter and a son, I decided that The Dervish and I should have our first official Mother/Daughter Girl Time while her younger brother had a little bonding session with his old man.

Our first jaunt was a shopping trip – Big Girl underwear for The Dervish, and for me, a large foundation garment to reign in my postpartum pouch (read: FUPA) for an upcoming wedding for which my husband was a groomsmen and was going to look smokin’ in a tux – I figured I should do my best to look like we belonged together.

She didn’t really want to go, but I really wanted to go to the wedding and enjoy adult conversation, beverages, and my first official non-maternity outfit, so I braved rush hour traffic and a backseat driver/troubadour for the cause.

A shopper at heart, The Dervish ripped silky underthings off rack after rack (and I dutifully replaced them) while I did my damndest to find a lycra miracle. I chose the first neutral piece I came across in what I assumed was my size, and we headed for checkout.

The Dervish was getting annoyed that our trip was cutting into her dinner and outside play time, so Big Girl undies would have to wait. Or so I thought.

As we stood in line, on double-deck, The Dervish called out to the clerk:

“Hey! Hey, we’re buying hey-oooooge underwear!”

The clerk, a teenager at an after school job, didn’t know where to look or how to deal with this fervent declaration.

But I laughed. I’ve had two babies, the second birth which by cause and effect made necessary a veterinary procedure that no one, animal or human, should be fully conscious or remotely mentally present for and is better off erased from memory. Because of that, it will be really, really hard for The Dervish to embarrass me.  She has no earthly idea of how embarrassed by me she will be in seven or eight years, and time is passing quickly.

So I proudly announce that I was the one who got Big Girl undies that day.