One of the great things about kids is that they don't ever really think before they speak. And even if they did, it probably still wouldn't change what they say, because they don't really process the same way we grown-ups do. Children are so driven by emotion, and the funny thing is, so are adults. The difference is the fine-tuned (or, let's be honest, not so fine-tuned) reformation that happens through the school years, teaching us a little thing called tact. Or, as I sometimes refer to it, lying. I know you'll say, "no...it's not lying..." but think about it. Picture it: your co-worker comes in sporting a pair of tight, white capri pants, it's after Labor Day, and she's, um, not skinny. To top it off, she's wearing pink polka dot underpants. Obviously. She saunters past your desk, obviously looking for you to compliment her. Your automatic reaction, because you're so very "trained" in your etiquette, is: "Oh, Janice! What cute pants, where'd you get 'em?" You mean: "Holy crap, Janice. I can see that you thought you were 13 this morning, not just because your pants came from the junior's section, but also because your underwear are screaming Tiger Beat, and by the way, it's almost October."
So, in essence, didn't you lie? Nah...it was tact. Let's keep telling ourselves that.
Kids, however, don't have that filter.
Here's a scenario: I put on a hot pink (you can only say "hot pink" if you lived through the 80's, by the way), long sleeved tee this morning. My sons were out in the kitchen, eating cinnamon rolls. Which I cannot eat for breakfast, I've discovered, because if I do, by about 11 a.m., I am in a diabetic coma. And I don't have diabetes.
But I regress.
So, hot pink shirt, jeans and my slippers. Standard attire. Admittedly, the hot pink shirt is a little form-fitting. It shrunk in the washer, but I still like the color. Anyway. I walk out into the kitchen and ask the boys how their breakfast is going. Gabe, the little one, starts giggling. "Mommy," he says, "yo shirt wooks wike Santa Claus." What!? It's not red, it's hot pink! Isaac says "Well, maybe a girl Santa Claus. I think he means your belly is jolly. Gabie, she has a bowl full of jelly in there!" I am never feeding them again. I stood there in shock, not even knowing what to say. See, as adults, since we've been trained to use this tact thing, we also have a delayed response when it comes to handling a situation that isn't tactful. Isaac decided to break the silence: "Okay, mom. It'll be fine. I just think you should literally go put a different shirt on. Seriously."
Seriously? Literally? You're five. Since when did you become a mini-Tim Gunn? I'm never feeding you again.
So that's how my day started. I now have a much baggier, cover-every-inch of my upper-half gray, drab, hooded shirt on now. The hood is there as a safety, just in case I need to cover my hair, should it become raucous and, I don't know, leprechaun-like. I've been put back in my place: mommyhood. Boring, frumpy, stay-at-home mommyhood.
As an honorable mention, I should note that my dear mother, love-her-to-death, is one of the few adults I know who won't mince words. I mean, to me or my sister, she won't. She has told us when we've looked downright hideous, when we've done something dumb (which, to her, wouldn't be called dumb, it'd be more dramatic, like asinine), and for me, she even proof-reads my blogs, free of charge! Most people just read along, and ignore it if I misspell something or use improper grammar. You're reading for content, right? You realize I probably do know how to spell, and I generally make good grammatical choices, but I also do have three kids here and sometimes it's tough to edit everything in my five-minute window of time to blog. My mom, however, reads through with her very critical eye, and calls me as soon as she spots my mistakes. "Do you not know the proper usage of the word hear, moron? You hear music, but you are sitting here." I love my mother, she means well. And the good news is, she'd never do it to anyone else. She'd lie. I mean, she'd use tact.