He was so excited as I eagerly tore into the wrapping paper.
"Do you like it Mommy? Do you like?" he asked.
"Of course I do honey!" I replied.
It was a t-shirt (that I had to send in the week before) that he had painted. I loved the painting. It was two hand print flowers with fingerprint bees buzzing around.
And I can't stress enough that I love the painting. I love it when my kids bring home artwork that has been made out of their hand prints.
I love it because I know those little hands aren't going to be that little much longer and I know when I'm 90 and I'm riffling through the attic, I will be brought to tears by how small they once were. In fact, I'm getting teary eyed just thinking about it now.
But on a t-shirt? What's wrong with artwork on a piece of paper? That has been, I don't know - framed?
I hung the shirt in the closet hoping that I could just enjoy the painting without having to actually wear the shirt.
Fast forward to yesterday.
After we got home from preschool, I went upstairs to change my clothes. Yesterday was the last meeting of MOPS for the year and I tried to look a little cuter than normal. I even wore my wedge heels! But try doing laundry and making lunch in wedge heels. It's just not practical so up I went to change.
On the way up to my room Peter asked me when I was going to wear the t-shirt he so lovingly made for me. O.k. so he didn't add that last part, but he did ask me when I was going to wear the t-shirt. The mommy guilt that constantly swirls around in my head added the last part.
So being the good mother that I am, I dutifully put it on. He was thrilled. He gave me two very large hugs and went off on his merry way very unaware that his 38 year-old mother felt a wee bit foolish wearing a t-shirt with two big hand prints right on the chest.
Being the fashionista that I am, I paired the shirt with my baggy haven't-been-washed-in-4-days-even-though-they-been-worn-4-days-in-a-row Levi Capri's and my bare feet.
Because I just don't think I'm mom enough to pull it off with my wedge heels.
