The Toddler Has No Clothes

Dear Oma and Tante,

Mama is a very bad mama.

You know all those nice things you said about her after the last post? Take them all back. Immediately.

Let me tell you about my rotten Mama. Today we dropped Big Sister off at preschool. When we climbed into the car, Mama noticed that her Mama Bag didn’t have any diapers in it. She mumbled about that a little bit, but then said we probably didn’t need them. Then she gave me some juice and a pacie for the ride. I held Sister’s hand and drank my juice and looked about for buses and generally had a good time.

After we dropped Sister off at school, I got a special treat. I got to go to The Little Gym! Usually only Big Sister goes, but she had an extra “make-up” class that she couldn’t use, so I got to go. I had a fabulous time! I ran around, did somersaults, danced, threw balls, popped bubbles, and flipped upside-down. Whenever someone looked at me I stretched my arms up as high as I could and then clapped for myself!

Mama said I looked like those people on wedding dance floors throwing their arms in the air and singing, “Shout!”

I know Mama’s doing all sorts of austerity measures, just like Greece, but I really think Mama should break open the checkbook and let me go to gym every week.

But anyway, that wasn’t the bad part. After class, we ran errands. We started at Target. As we were leaving Target, Mama picked me up and discovered I was wet.

Really wet. 

My bottom was wet. My front was wet. My pants were soggy.

Mama said, “uh-oh.”

Uh-oh? UH-OH?

What's the "uh-oh"? A good Mama would break out the diapers and wipes and spare clothes from the Mama Bag, and we would go on our way.

Mama is not a good Mama.

Lucky for me she bought some diapers at Target, because otherwise I would have been staring down the barrel of a roll of paper towels.

There was lots of talk about whether we had time to go home before we had to come back and pick up Sister. Mama said, “nope.” And that’s where it got bad.

She drove us over to Smith’s, where we needed to go anyway. It’s about three blocks away.

So I fell asleep. Soppy pants and all. Didn’t bother me one bit. Could have driven me home in a blissful sleeping puddle.

But Mama couldn’t leave well enough alone. When we got to Smith’s, I was rudely awakened, and carried at arm’s length into the store. Apparently Mama didn’t want to get pee on her shlumpy workout Little Gym clothes. Frankly, I think Mama was more worried about her shirt and the car seat than about my chapped bottom.

Anyway, Mama hustled me and my piddly pants into the bathroom.

Did I mention I’m terrified of public restrooms?

It’s all the unpredictable and unnaturally loud flushing. It’s the changing tables that suspend you mid-air over a chasm. You could fall to your death as quick as Mama says, “Now, where did I put those wipes?”

So I lay on the changing table and cried. Mama changed me and—here’s the bad part—didn’t put my pants back on.

That’s right. NO PANTS.

She said they were too wet. And she didn’t have any extras.

What? What? WHAT?

There I was, in the middle of Smith’s, wearing a big fluffy red coat, a diaper and . . . shoes. Can you imagine my embarrassment? It would have been one thing if we could have gone right back to the car and gone home. But no. Mama just had to buy milk.

Cause it wasn’t bad enough before. We had to stand in a checkout line to make it extra special. Then we had to walk back to the car.

Did I mention it’s winter? In Utah?

I was freezing my ham hocks off.

Mama tried to put her coat over me. Nothing doing. I cried until the tears ran down my cheeks and kicked that thing right off me. I wasn’t about to let her off the hook that easy.

Then we had to go pick up Sister at preschool. As if my mortification were not complete. More with the walking out in the cold. More with the public places. More with people pointing and saying, “Where are those child’s pants?”

OK, only Oma actually says that out loud. But I know people were thinking it.

I mean, this is Utah. You can’t even show a bare shoulder around here without someone calling in a BYU Honor Code violation.

When we got back into the car to drive home, Mama tried the coat thing again. So I kicked and cried again. Sister said, “Maybe when we get home we should put a little blanket over Linnea.”

Really? OR—here’s an idea—PANTS.

Love,
Mortified Nea