Greetings, KuKd'ers, TTC'ers, and Inquisitive Guests!
Woo-hoo! It's Mother's Day.
A day that brings lots of emotional gloppity-gloop to lots of KuKd mommas and TTC'ers out there. I respect that fact, and I do think it's nice to have a specially sanctioned day for giving thanks to the chronically under-thanked.
This is my second or third Mother's Day (I've lost track) as a knocked down momma. For me, though - unlike a lot of women I know in the Kukd blog-o-sphere and real-o-sphere - this day usually passes without even the faintest sentimental flutter of my heart. I think it's because it feels more like a contrived, Hallmark-Greeting-Card-and-FTD-Floral-Company-Money-Making-Day than anything else, not remotely connected to the actual fact of being a KuKd momma or any other type of momma, for that matter. A meaningless fleck of commercial, profit-driven dust attatched to my sweater, easily brushed aside.
THIS Mother's Day weekend, however, was a tad bit different. Uncharacteristic of the others, THIS one involved...you guessed it... snot and lingerie. And that snot did, in fact, come from not just a "sentimental flutter of the heart," but a virtual tsunami of emotional intensity.
Let me explain.
Last night, Kevin and I did what now try to do once a month: a spontaneous, one-night "urban getaway." We put in a low Priceline bid for a fancy-shmancy 4-star hotel in downtown Seattle for a night, stock up on wine, splurge on a sinfully vegetable-less, butter-infused dinner at a French restaurant, and...well...you know the rest. We chose this particular weekend for our "May getaway" not because it was Mother's Day or anything else of cosmic significance, but because it worked out schedule-wise.
A bit of background: I am not a lingerie-wearing type of person. I'm just not. Buying some expensive, impractical, lacey little thing made out of silk (that HAS to be dry cleaned, of course) is not something that would ever normally cross my mind, especially not in recent years. I don't know about you, but I had positively ZERO libido for the months before and after Zachary's stillbirth. Delivering a dead baby is about the most unsexy thing you can possibly do. Poor Kevin went months and months without getting laid. I felt sorry for him, sort of. But not that sorry.
Then, not long ago, Kevin hinted semi-jokingly that he thought it would be lovely if he came home from work to find me - AND I QUOTE: "wearing lingerie and scrubbing the kitchen floor." Later, he added : "...or doing dishes."
Let me repeat that, in case you didn't read it correctly: "wearing lingerie and scrubbing the kitchen floor...or doing dishes."
Literally, that's what he said.
I laughed at first, of course. We both did. What an absurdly stereotypical, male-dominant, anti-feminist, caveman-like fantasy to have! Coming home to find your highly independent, boldly headstrong, reasonably intelligent wife (who has a Master's degree!!) doing something as subservient as scrubbing the floor? In lingerie? And ME, of all people, doing such a thing? I am about the biggest slob-o-phile that ever existed, hardly noticing or caring if we go five years without washing the bedsheets or vacuuming. Dirt doesn't bother me, so I wouldn't be caught dead scrubbing the floor.
But yesterday morning, I woke up feeling strangly inspired to run over to Victoria's Secret, which I knew was situated somewhere in the bowels of the crowded shopping mall down the street, to at least see if anything there was on sale. No harm in doing that. And, since we were planning on doing our May getaway that night (which was last night) - although scrubbing the floors in lingerie would just be too, too ridiculous for words - I could at least maybe, maybe, surprise Kevin in BED. You know, he emerges from the shower and - BOOM - I'm wearing something outrageously sexy. Or I send him out to look for coffee, and BOOM - he returns to find me waiting for him in something slinky.
That, I thought, I could maybe handle without dying from embarassment.
So I told Kevin I was off to run some boring errands, and drove to the mall instead, my heart going pitter-patter. I felt oddly as though I were doing something illegal, something that might land me in hell, something my prune-faced 4th grade teacher Sister Estelle would surely frown upon.
I guarantee you, she would give me a hard whack with her rule if she knew what I tried on. I only did it because it was on the sales rack, and because I overheard another woman raving about how comfortable it was (for the record, she looked like a normal human being, which made me feel like a normal human being, which made the whole shopping experience instantly seem less scary).
It looked like this:
Black bustier. Made in Italy. On sale. Attached to something like these:
Lacy thigh-high panty hose. Minus the shoes (permanent foot problems were not a part of the agreement when Kevin and I got married).
Now, does anybody else find it more than a litte bit awkward to go to a suburban shopping mall filled with innocent people, walk into a brightly lit chain store, and browse the racks for slinky, lacey articles of "clothing" designed to be worn before (or while) doing the wild thing? It's like this bizarre fusion of two opposite worlds: wholesome-shopping-mall-filled-with-strollers-and-old-people world, and kinky-sex-acts-in-the-laundry-room world. Weird. I felt weird, just being in that place.
(I've already told Kevin he shouldn't hold his breath for the floor-scrubbing thing, the poor guy).