If Mommy's Housecoat Could Talk...

I read a note that I wrote in 2010 that said, simply: What If Mommy's Housecoat Could Talk?


I mean....WHAT?!?!

In 2010 my oldest child was four years old and my youngest was two. I know I wasn't on drugs. I know I wasn't drinking. So...what in the world was I thinking?

And yet, here I sit...curled up on the couch wearing the very same housecoat, plus another baby to the fold.

So, what if my housecoat could talk?

I cannot remember which Christmas it was that my mom gave me this soft red housecoat. I know I've had it since Lucy was little. It came with matching red slippers that were amazing (but are now in a landfill somewhere). I don't know when I've washed it last. Yesterday, Roger told me I had baby vomit all over the left sleeve. I shook my head and corrected him with, "No...that's been there for a while. I don't know what it is." However, I investigated it closer later last night and I am almost eight-nine percent positive that it's the remnants of homemade salt dough...though I'm not sure why I was making salt dough wearing my bulky red housecoat.

My housecoat smells a little.

It has the faint scent of my perfume on it...

...the natural smell of my hair (and by "natural" I mean "unwashed")...

...it smells like milk. My milk...

It doesn't smell like baby spit-up. But now that I have publicly declared that, London will be sure to christen it with a tidal wave of half-way digested milk.

It smells a little like sweat. I mean...it just does. And why shouldn't it?

But if it could talk, it might say these things:

1. It does not matter if you wear me all day, so long as you were a good mom while wearing me.

2. I'm sorry you had to discover the baby had a blowout only after lifting your hand to brush hair off your face and wondering why your hand was all wet. It. Was. Poo. And now it's smeared across your face. I won't tell anyone.

3. Don't worry about your post-baby body. It is the body of a mother and I will always fit around it, even when it is nine months pregnant. Of course, wearing me then might make you look like Mrs. Claus, but I will fit you. That's what matters.

4. Wear me and read a book in bed when you need to escape. Just. Make. It. Happen.

5. I promise never to tell anyone how many Oreos you eat when the babies go to bed. It's our secret.

6. I know that they don't listen well, but don't yell at the kiddos. One day...they'll start listening. Maybe. And if not, still promise not to tell anyone about locking yourself in the pantry and binging on the Oreos.

7. I am not sexy. Do NOT wear me as lingerie.

8. Shop for lingerie. Unless you don't want more children...

9. You can write so many novels while wearing me. I make the brain work a little better. It's the snuggles.

10. I always feel better on you than blue jeans. And that's okay. But DO NOT wear me out of the house.

Yep. I think that's what my housecoat would say if it could speak. And if it could speak, it would speak to me in Tyrone Power's voice as Jamie Boy the devilish pirate. Oh...yes. It would.

PS: I washed my housecoat. I shouldn't have. Now it smells bad.


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