Moms With Marbles is a weekly post from a different mom around the web who shares her marbles of mommy wisdom. If you are interested in being featured, please send an email to momsmarbles{at}hotmail{dot}com.
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My name is Tracy Reinhardt but I think of myself as The Crazy Suburban Mom ( A fact my family will vouch for. Enthusiastically. ) I spend my days trying to see half-full glasses, the silver lining, and the cheese rather than the whine. I'm also and artist and a freelance humor writer.
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The Ghost of Granny Panties Past
I drove my son to a friend's house last Saturday. I was feeling hassled and it was early so I grabbed the keys, stepped into my $9.99 CVS Barbie-pink Crocs and ran out the door.
The rest of my attire consisted of midnight blue flannel pajama pants (with shooting stars) and an inside-out Mustard yellow Cape May New Jersey night shirt. Before leaving I looked in the mirror. I decided I was reasonably presentable for the current circumstance because:
1. I wasn’t getting out of the car.
2. The trip would take less than 15 minutes
3. The night shirt looked like a T-shirt and the chances of someone seeing my shooting star pajama bottoms were practically nil.
I wasn’t thinking about much of anything during the car ride. I listened to talk radio; the boy had his iPod on. Someone on the radio was complaining. The sun was in my eyes. People were trying to pass me so they could get nowhere 2 minutes faster than me.
My normal day came to a crashing halt when I looked in my view mirror. That’s when it happened... Instead of seeing the traffic behind me I saw my Grandma.
But not Grandma with her perfect nails and immaculate attire… Grandma, the day she opened the door to her apartment in her underwear, holding an enema bag.
I was 18 years old and had my driver's license. Grandma was kind of cool and always had maple walnut ice cream; my mother didn’t. So Grandma was a good place to go after school.
Grandma: Oh, Tracy. Good. You can help me with something.
Me: No. Um, that’s okay, you look... (I was struggling for a word here...) Busy?
(You have to understand my horror at this point. I had never seen my Grandma in her underwear before, a fact I was good with. Things she had said to me over the years came tumbling back. Stomach ache? You need a good physic (Physic is what Grandma called laxatives). Headache? Physic. Confused? Get yourself a Physic. Got to move those bowels, she would say.
I started backing away from the door.
Grandma: Don’t be silly, come in.
And with that Grandma walked into her kitchen (It was a small apartment, I could see the kitchen from outside her door) where she resumed defrosting her freezer.
With the enema bag.
I never forgot that. I've asked myself, how could she answer the door in her Granny Panties, many times over the years. I’ve thought about it a lot.
I didn’t want to. It’s just something you can’t forget no matter how hard you try.
And there she was the other day, in my rear view mirror, smiling, nodding, pointing to the enema bag. My first thought was, but I don't have a head ache... and than I realized she had come to save me from going farther down that slippery slope she herself had gone down all those many years before.
How is it that one day going out without mascara is unthinkable? And seemingly the next day (or week, or year… they all sort of run together) the only mascara you have on is what’s left under your eyes from the night before?
How does acceptable public attire go from:
I look hot!
To...I look presentable.
To…Eh, at least I’m clean.
To…No one is going to see my shooting-star pajama pants anyway.
And believe me, when going out in your shooting star flannel pajamas becomes okay? You are so far down the slope already you need divine intervention from The Ghost of Granny Panties Past.
I just showed you the next step. And it’s not pretty.
I’ve seen it.