Super

It appears my kids have problems wearing clothes in public places.

We went to a Super Bowl party tonight and it was simply lovely. Here’s how it went from my perspective:

[Women in side room telling the stories of how they met their husbands.]

“Argh! Ar! What? Huh! Whoo-hoo!” from masculine voices in the living room.

[Squeaking, shrill voices from the back bedroom, where approximately 500 children were corralled with two sitters and 2,700 packages of fruit snacks.]

Suddenly, I see my child. She is beautiful, smiling.

She is not wearing the clothes she arrived in.

Trailing her, with a smile full of glee, I see another daughter.

She, too, is not wearing the clothing she arrived wearing.

There can be only one explanation: nudity has taken place. In the room with 500 children and 2,700 fruit snacks.

I consider adopting concern. I consider adopting modest outrage. I consider speaking to my free-spirited children about the wisdom of stripping down in mixed company. I consider telling the other women in the room they aren’t my kids or their father taught them to dress (or undress, as that may be).

After all that consideration I decide… to do nothing.

Not a thing.

In my head I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving they’re not running in front of the t.v. wearing nothing but what God gave ’em. Because friends are friends forever until someone strikes out wearing underwear in front of strangers.

And that was my Super Bowl experience. How was yours?!