Girl Pants/Boy Pants

Yesterday Todd was going to pick up Nick from daycare, but got stuck at work late. And as luck would have it, I got stuck at work late, too. So it was Gramma to the rescue with the pick up. I called the babysitter to let her know that my mom would be picking up Nick, and in a slightly worried voice, she informed me that Nick had an "accident" earlier in the day.



Rule #1 -- Don't use the word "accident" with a new mom when referring to her child. It causes instant panic.

I asked her what she meant by "accident" and she informed me that he ate a huge breakfast, and then proceeded to "throw up" all over himself.

Rule #2 -- Don't use the phrase "throw up" when you really mean "spit up" because to a new mom, "throw up" implies illness. "Spit up" implies "he ruined his clothes".

Anyway, she proceeded to tell me that he had dirtied his entire outfit (shirt and pants) and she had to change his clothes. But because I clearly don't care about being in the running for mom of the year, I forgot to leave a change of pants at the sitters house in case of necessity.

So seeing as it was cold outside, the babysitter didn't want Nick to just be sitting around in a onesie and socks (much appreciated) and had to dress him in the only thing she had:

Girl pants. Size 2T. Bright reddish-magenta. Ruffled cuffs.

Seriously, I forgot to take pics, but the above is the best shot my mom got of him in said "girl pants". (The babysitter kept calling them "girl pants" which for some reason was hilarious to me.)

I'm completely relieved that Nick was too young to know or care that he was wearing girl pants because I have a haunting memory of a time in the 3rd grade when I wet my pants (I know, a little too old for pants wetting...but I digress). After wetting my pants, I embarrassingly told my teacher, who sent me to the clinic, where they kept a supply of old donated clothes for situations exactly such as these.

But apparently girls stop wetting their pants after kindergarten, because the clinic only had boy's underwear and pants on hand. And they made me wear them. I'm talking mighty mouse under-roo's, and boy sweat pants. I. Was. Mortified.

So I hid out in the clinic until my mom could leave work, grab a pair of panties and girl pants for me from home, and bring them to me so that I didn't have to spend the day in boy underpants. Not that anyone could tell I was wearing them, but in my little third grade mind, it was the end of the world.

And I never wet my pants again.