Cutting yourself with your safety scissors? Accident.

Slicing your pants to ribbons? NOT an accident.

Spilling your cereal? Accident.

Pouring your juice in the mess to see the colors run? NOT an accident.

Bumping into your brother? Accident.

Biting the #@$% out of him? Again, NOT an accident.

Glad we could clear this up.

No…what I’m really here for this morning is to tell you how absolutely, indisputably, freaking cute I look today. And I know that sounds horrible, but it’s been a long time coming so let me revel in it. Basically, I let up on the whole “no buying clothes that fit, just lose 15 lbs.” rule. And it was kind of like where you ban sugar from your diet then freak out and eat an entire pie.

Last Saturday, I hit Ann Taylor Loft like the Vikings hit northern England. I’m not kidding, there was some serious 9th century pillaging happening. I found pants that fit in a size that doesn’t wound my pride (thank you vanity sizing!). And tons of cute tops that skim over the problem areas without veering into the maternity top look. A much harder trick to pull off than you might think. In fact, I look an awful lot like this right now — only, you know…older and shorter and…well I’m wearing this top, at least.

Also cardigans. I’m in a cardigan phase right now, and they fed the urge admirably. Check out this one with the sparkles. Own it! And am wearing it with the aforementioned top and my new boyfriend crop jeans. Comfy and fabulous. Cannot beat it.

O.k. — so that’s my ME moment. Now I have to go take the boys to pre-school. To any of my local peeps, I’ve got tons of coupons that they gave me for next month’s big sale. As I won’t be able to shop again for the next six months (at least), I’ll happily pass these along so you can enjoy your own Viking moment. Only, don’t light anything on fire. They get really weird about that.

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But honestly, who wants to dress up like an investment banker?

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Me, standing in my closet staring at my clothes: Just trying to decide what to wear today, babe.

Tom: Ummm…Dinosaurs.

Now why didn’t I think of that?

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Tom is what you might call solid. Thick as a tree, strong as an ox — I’m convinced Tom is going to hit his 4 year growth spurt and then decide between completing pre-school or declaring himself NFL draft eligible. But in the meantime, he needs pants.

I searched GAP, local department stores, J.C. Penney and finally, after much soul searching turned to Sears. Why the hesitation? Two words — Pretty Plus.

Pretty Plus is a code word they use for a special segment of the girl’s clothing line at Sears, and I’ll clue you in now — it doesn’t mean MORE pretty. It means MORE to love…MORE material required…MORE trips to the buffet line. In short, it’s the clothes for big girls, and it’s the only place I could find pants until the 6th grade.

So for me, a return to Sears shopping meant revisiting a LOT of childhood trauma. I worried that giving Tom the “Husky” label (the code word for the boys’ clothing line) at such an early age might be hurtful. I worried that he would notice that his clothes were different than his brothers’. In short, I worried that I was placing the weight of all my childhood angst squarely on his sturdy little shoulders. It was a lot to swallow, but I took a deep breath and clicked through the checkout screens required to place my order. Then put it out of my mind.

But as the days went by, and Tom had to wear sweatpants or elastic shorts while the other boys were wearing jeans, I really began to look forward to that Sears order. So what if he’s built a little differently? He still deserves to be comfortable! I started to get a bit angry with all those other retailers for not realizing that awesome comes in all shapes and sizes. And three years old is way too young to be told that you don’t “fit the mold.” Come to think of it…I’m not sure it’s ever o.k. to send that message.

The box arrived last night. And after his bath, when he was smelling his sweetest and feeling his cuddliest, Tommy got to try on his new pants. Pants with enough room in the waist so his tummy doesn’t hurt. Pants built for a boy born with a booty, so he can run and jump and play without constantly having to stop and tug them back into place. In short, pants that made him feel good. He patted his new jeans and said with a huge grin, “Mommy, dese fit me jus’ wight.”

And suddenly, I remembered the beautiful eggplant corduroys I got in the 4th grade. They came with a matching Lavender turtleneck covered in flowers. I remembered how soft they were when I slipped them on. How I felt like smiling more when I was wearing them. And in that moment, just like flipping a switch, I decided Pretty Plus just might have stood for “More Pretty” after all.

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As I contemplated this herculean task, this insurmountable objective, this colossal conglomeration of clothing (isn’t alliteration fun?), I realized how much easier my life with laundry would be if it were all just sheets and towels. Because I can do sheets and towels. In fact, I’d even say I was gifted with a fitted sheet.

But once you force me to move beyond the wonderfully sensible world of rectangles, then the train just runs right off the rails. The tiny t-shirts, tiny shorts, itty-bitty socks and comic book colored underwear…it’s just too much! Too many angles. Too many hems and stitches and wrinkly, uncooperative bits. I’m getting a headache just looking at it!

This is where the Greeks had it right (not the bit with the animal sacrifice and rogering of close relatives…let’s just ignore that part for the sake of this discussion). They boiled clothing down to its essence. A big rectangle artfully draped, and Voila! You’re ready for work…for an outing…for a fancy-dress party. Always in style, never overdressed. Really, what more could you ask for in a single piece of clothing?

And since we’ve established that Sam prefers to go commando if given the slightest provocation (as seen both here and here), it just stands to reason that togas are the way to go. In fact, I could recycle all those old crib sheets we don’t use anymore. Ha! How green is that idea?

Throw in som Marxist rhetoric, and maybe I’ll get appointed as the new Green Jobs Czar. As long as there’s no laundry in the job description, I’m IN!!!

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