A friend shared this picture with me, saying it reminded her of my blog. I responded that it reminded me of my life. People were amused, but I was saying so in all sincerity. I have only recently been able to talk about the time the Father Figure answered the door, to Baby’s soccer coach no less, wearing long underwear. And only long underwear.

No really. See, this is my life. Now, how on earth did all the forces unite in such a way that I allowed this to happen on my watch? Well that’s just it, I wasn’t around. These are the pressures that today’s mothers face. I turn my back for one moment, and my husband, my children, the world turn against me. All I am trying to do is maintain the façade that I have it together, that I have a happy family that isn’t out to humiliate me. Anyway, I was at a late night meeting, which sounds worse than it really probably was, just one that ran long, most likely due to discussions about what colored sprinkles should be on the doughnuts after church.

In all fairness to the father figure, this visit was unexpected. I had ordered Texas Ruby Red Grapefruit as part of a fundraiser months earlier. And I paid with a check. That was my first mistake. Never, ever tell anyone where you live. What better way to prove how false the reality you attempt to display by welcoming outsiders into your “safe place.” Furthermore, this was during his 120 work weeks. You think I exaggerate, I don’t. So, before I left with infant X-Man to discuss the pressing concerns of church coffee, I work the father figure up and watched him turn on a movie for the kids and lay down on the couch.  The after action report I was given mentioned him awakening to the doorbell, but allowing Mac and Baby to open it before he got there. But either way, he was still just wearing long johns.

This wasn’t his only fashion faux pas.  I had to lay down the law last summer. Shoeless, I still feed you. Show up anywhere during daylight hours not wearing a shirt, the ridicule will reign down. I will make your life so painful you’re willing to walk across a floor strewn with Legos barefoot to get away from me. Hey, I never said I was a nice wife. In fact, my own father told me I was a “ninja wife.” That is, I wait for the father figure to make a misstep and then I jump out from behind a corner and cut his head off. That particular shoe might fit, but the guy keeps giving me material.

I’ve had my own panicked attempts to make my life appear to be more ordered than it ever possibly could be. And mine involved camera crews. At the tender age of five weeks, Baby received her first credit card application. By six months, she had ten. And the credit card company refused to remove her name from their mailing list. Because she hadn’t made the request. Although she thoroughly chewed up the plastic cards they sent her. Anyway, I emailed the local “we help you” news station, mentioned this conundrum and my concerns for her identity protection, and then went to class. Oh yeah, as a brief side note, at this time I was working full time, going to school part time and had a two year old and an infant. My house looked the part as well. So, randomly, I get a call from Mr. Fix-it at the news station who mentioned that he was about 20 minutes away. Now, let’s talk about panic. Not that I didn’t have time to call the father figure and say “know how I say we need to keep the house clean always, it’s because you never know when the camera crew will show up.”

So anyway. I don’t foresee father figure answering doors to anyone wearing long johns, sans pants, again. Mostly because I only refer it to the time that “you answered the door wearing leggings.” As for the house being clean all the time, well, I just don’t email news stations for help anymore.