Like when I turned 30, and some jackass thought it was appropriate to send me an AARP application.

Thirty!

Or last year when a Golden Girls-esque wig catalog arrived on my doorstep, addressed to moi.

Shimmery, permed kind of wigs (click above link to see the scariest blond Asian woman ever).

Last month I even received an American Express Black Card application in the mail.  Did you know they have an annual fee of $2,500?

Think they’re aware I paid for a coffee and $1 menu apple pies in quarters at McDonalds today?

Apparently thirty marks a time of retirement, hair-loss and wealth.

Perhaps when I hit forty, they’ll send me information on Craftmatic Adjustable Beds and reverse mortgages.

However, on the flip side, there are some companies with an uncanny way of being in the know.

For instance, last year, major diaper and infant formula companies began sending products to my parent’s house addressed to me.  All before I even tested positive on a pregnancy test.

How did they know?

With this in-depth method of learning about a target audience, you would think that companies would automatically remove me from these sorts of mailing lists…

“I love my body?”

Well if I did, then I don’t anymore, thankyouverymuch.

I swear every model’s waistline in this flyer is as wide as my thigh.  And their thighs are thinner than my ankles.

Not to mention, I haven’t been able to see my crotch in months. I’m sure it’s a hot mess down there, and I’m not about to try and squeeze it all into their delicate $25 underwear.

Being on every pregnancy mailing list possible right now should somehow preclude me from receiving any ad with hot women.  And at 9 months pregnant, while carrying an extra 25 pounds and struggling to put one pant leg on at a time, trying on G-strings right now is up there on my to-do list with having an epidural needle wedged into my spine.

Don’t get me wrong.  I do not dislike the store or anything.  But until my granny panties no longer look like a twist-tie on a loaf of bread, no thanks.

However, if Victoria’s Secret could somehow figure out how to keep my boobs this size as they rear up to breastfeed, I would be ALL over that.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

The past three years has been a learning process.  Not only in my role as a mother, but also in the motherhood social arena.

For instance, when Babisodes was a wee infant breastfeeding on demand, I learned the importance of loading a battery of supplies into my diaper bag, just to leave the house for an hour.  Breastfed poop, can and will go everywhere.   There is no such thing as too many extra pants.  And those changing pads the size of paper towels will. not. cut it.  Seedy poop can get some distance.

Before she learned how to speak, I foresaw the benefits of teaching her sign language.  Basic signs such as “more,” “please,” and “all done” not only facilitated communication between us, but restaurant patrons around us were also able to enjoy their meals in a bit more peace and quiet.

Today, I do my best to try and prep her before walking into social settings.  Mainly playdates.  I have a little laundry list we cover beforehand.  I often remind her that it is best to speak kindly, take turns, and although it can be challenging, it is important to share with friends.

So far I have been pretty good about anticipating and preparing for social catastrophes with my daughter.

Usually.

That is until last week.  When toddlerhood’s honest, literal sense threw me a humdinger of a social reality check.

For the first time, perhaps since Babisodes was a non-speaking, non-mobile infant, I braved the frilly-laced racks of a lingerie store.  Preparing for Valentine’s Day of course.

I should have taken the immediate warning signs seriously in the store, but I didn’t.

Not even two minutes after walking into the store, I turned around to scold her, “Stop walking through the panty racks!” as she brushed away armfuls as if it were a G-string jungle.

I should have known better, but I didn’t.

I put my big girl panties on and sucked it up.  I decided I would make this trip as quick as possible.  Besides, they only had a handful of options in my size.  So I grabbed them and ran for refuge in the fitting rooms.

Of course, every single stall was occupied, except one.

The stall was riddled with un-hung clothing in various sizes, clearly left behind by shoppers.

In a hurry, Babisodes and I went in anyway.  I sat her on top of a bench and quietly went over a laundry list of fitting room etiquette.

“Do not touch anything.  Do not sit on the floor.  And you must stay inside this stall only.”

“Okay, mommy” she said softly amidst the bustling fitting room noise.

I handed her a book to keep her occupied and began unhooking a delicate, pink teddy from a hanger.

“Mommy.  When will I have boooobz like yours?”

“Shh!”

(If she’s lucky enough to get bug bites in the right places, perhaps maybe this summer.)

“Oh Mommy!  Don’t forget to try on DAT HOT PINK UNDERWEARS!”

<<<<crickets>>>>

Not to mention, the hot pink panties were not brought in by me, and they were approximately 10 times larger than my size. I had strapped on my big girl panties, but they’re not that big.

Amidst the deadened silence, I said to myself- Screw it.  This teddy will fit…mostly…probably…I think. We’re outta here.

Methinks lingerie will be missing from my wardrobe until I have a sitter for Babisodes.

Until then, we’ll be ringing in the holidays of love with neutral colored, faded, cotton full coverage…

…just my size.