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Dressed to Spill
By Debbie Farmer
When I realized I was seeing the washing machine more than my husband, I gave up trying to stay clean and began to think of my clothing as a convenient alternative to cameras and video recorders. Most family vacations are permanently recorded on my wardrobe. Our three-day trip to Disneyland fills the entire right side of my closet.
"Don't you think it's time to bleach that?" my husband suggests, pointing to several spots on my shirt. "People are starting to stare."
"What? And erase the memories of the Grand Canyon?" I say. "Where the baby spit up three bottles of apple juice right before the donkey licked our daughter and I had to use my sleeve as a napkin?"
If I ever end up looking the same in the evening as I did in the morning it would mean I forgot to do something important like making mud pies, hammering on a loose training wheel with the garage door opener or hugging my children. Even though I look like a mess at the end of the day, I display myself proudly -- because I consider every stain on my shirt a badge I've earned from my children.