I Like My Muffin Frosted, Thanks

We had a ridiculous storm here in Virginia last week and my darling husband's work schedule has prevented him from being home to help me with clean-up.  It's all well and good and I like working outside and I don't really mind wading through millions of leaves from our ancient magnolia tree, but it's just a function of having the time to get after it since I can't really take Jack out with me.  You see, I'd LOVE to rake the leaves into giant piles and let him stomp and jump and kick through them - I'd even happily rake them back up.  However, in addition to leaves, branches, giant seed cone things, and bark, this particular magnolia tree also spews dead animals.  I don't know why, but it's been a chronic problem since we moved in.  I always tread carefully in the front yard because I never know when I'm going to step on a disgusting carcass of some hapless bird.  Or pieces of a carcass.  Yes, there have been times when I've raked up various chunks of birds - once a fully decapitated chunk.  It's horribly disgusting and beyond confusing to me.  I'm the one who won't let her kid pick up a feather he finds on the sidewalk so I'm certainly not going to let him romp around in the slaughterhouse.  And even if there weren't avian murder victims scattered across the yard, I'd not let him out because hidden under leaves all over the place are steaming piles of stinky dog feces from rude, annoying dog owners who let their beasts poo in my yard and neglect to pick up after them.  It's positively infuriating because there is nothing I can do about it.

Anyway.  All of that was unnecessary ranting only intended to set up the fact that I have to run outside and get accomplished what I can while the girls are sleeping and Jack is either at school or napping himself.  Therefore, I haven't got time to mess around with changing my clothes so I generally end up doing the yard work in whatever pair of jeans I've got on and some kind of t-shirty thing.  Now, another tangent must be visited here: I am back in my pre-pregnancy jeans.  Before you clap and cheer for me (because I know you were going to) understand that I can put them on.   Good for me.  But they're not really fitting the same way they did before in that they ride lower than I'd like since my hips are a little funkified from having carried 3 children since I purchased the pants (or since my sister handed them down to me).  But whatever; they get the job (chiefly, of covering my butt and legs with fabric) done and don't look too bad if I restrict myself to normal daily activities (chiefly, of sitting on my butt nursing babies or standing in the kitchen making food).

So the other day, I'm standing outside raking for all I'm worth, bending and picking up branches, etc. and I notice that cars are starting to pass by a little more slowly and that people are looking at me.  My first inclination was to assure myself that they think I'm a total badass for tackling such a huge project by my own little self.  My second inclination was to think, "Dude, they're so checking you out!  Girl, you still got it!" and feel all kinds of hot out there in my jeans and tight-ish shirt showing off my nice nursing rack.  Hah, Motherhood, you can't beat me!

Well, at some point I reached back to grab the wasitband of my jeans and hike them up and grabbed cotton.  A big, billowy bunch of cotton.  Gasp!  My granny-panties have spilled out over the top of my jeans. Mortification began to set in when it fully dawned on me that my shirt had scooted up, my jeans had scooted down, and my panties were moving into the void.  My bright blue panties.  Sitting there, highlighting my post-partum muffin top like a big glob of frosting. 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am a sexy beast.

After fiddling with it for a few minutes, I realized that there was, short of a pair of suspenders and/or a great deal on liposuction, nothing that could be done for the time being.  So I went back to work and made a conscious effort to keep my backside pointed house-ward to spare the drivers the sight of my frosted muffin and spare me the humiliation of knowing that they're not checking out my sexy butt, they're laughing at the demise of my dignity.