It's Not Dirty, It's Multipurpose!

With so much media coverage of Michael Jackson's passing, one thing in particular caught my interest -a single, white glove glitzed in Swarovski crystals. This iconic accessory became his trademark. I might have gone as far as wearing my sole surviving winter glove with the other cold hand jammed into my pea coat pocket, but I couldn't escape the "Billy Jean" chorus in my head.

Unfortunately, the stigma of homelessness hasn't stopped this mom from wearing her own signature accessory: Mommy Shirts. These battered pieces of clothing, some held together by threads washed dingy white from their original coloring, have been worn from early child rearing days to the more recent assertive autonomy adventures.

Mommy Shirts have grown wide as I grew wide because the breastfeeding/pumping did not, in fact, have a positive affect on my waistline. I might have dropped a dress size had I committed to breastfeeding until Pumpkin started college, but I'll never know for certain. Contrary to popular trend, I still believe if the child can chew pork chop, they can drink from a glass. Instead of shrinking beneath my Mommy Shirts, my painfully large chest continues to give me back and shoulder aches. And despite significant weight loss, they also continue to cause shame, currently resembling grapefruits in tube socks. Very sexy, I know. I consider this my "Greek Tragedy" phase of life: every stretch mark and saggy skin fold has an epic story of pre-baby beauty and tenacity.

Not every shirt I owned had Public Shirt potential, but avoiding permanent stains on practically every top became the impossible dream. My formidable foe: the bodily fluids. If feeling like a schlumpadinka didn't dampen my spirits enough, my leaking breasts would. I always had a Mommy Shirt packed in the diaper bag in the event of a very personal, very embarrassing water-main break. Just looking at Pumpkin 2-3 hours after the last time she fed could cause anything from a few drops to a freaking geyser registering a 7.2 on the Richter Scale.

My pathetic cotton tops evolved quickly from simple, at-home lounge wear to bib, burp cloth, tear wipe and snot stop, a catch-all for human emissions. If the baby bib covered in pureed sweet potatoes couldn't wipe any more schmutz off of Pumpkin's face, I offered Mommy Shirt. If the burp cloth sat too far out of reach when baby had "I'm gonna spew in .2 seconds" written all over her face, Mommy Shirt to the rescue! Eventually, I began to prefer catching spit up in one foul swoop of my stretched out top because I loathed scrubbing vomit off the floor or carpet. Unfortunately, scrubbing it into the carpet seemed more like what I had regrettably accomplished.

My toddler of a Pumpkin still asks if she can wipe the tears from her eyes, sputum from her nose or her sweaty forehead on my Mommy Shirt, even if I'm not wearing one.

A revelation dawned on me after daring myself one Tuesday to toss all these nasty clothes to the big laundromat in the sky, joined by random lost socks and forgotten undies: I wouldn't live in these nasty shirts forever. I could return to primping, make up and actual outfits instead of thrown together sweats and T's as Pumpkin grew more independent. I had to migrate back to pre-baby me so she could catalog what I remember as a child, the fascination of watching my mom put on mascara and curl her hair. I had to show her the importance of taking good care of herself because she has value as a female.

Slowly, two categories of attire emerged: the stained Mommy Shirts that should stay home, and those that pull a look together, manipulating people's perception that I'm a woman first, then a mother. My at-home shirts saved me hours of angst with the Shout gel and toothbrush at a quarter past midnight. Yet, if I planned to protect future cute tops from becoming casualties of child rearing, I would need a new means of handling sneezes, snot and leftovers in the corners of Pumpkin's mouth.

Herein lies my conversion to the mega purse/small suitcase filled with gum, wallet, hand sanitizer, random toys, the occasional crayon, stale snack and a giant folded stack of Kleenex. Only the innermost of the tissues are viable, free of crumby purse debris. I've also needed my own bib to serve and protect the Public Shirts. Nowadays, I'll don a cute top exactly three minutes before I make my exit and maintain a safe distance of 3-5 feet if markers or juice are present.

God bless the Mommy Shirts that got me through early motherhood. I'd much prefer to send them on a historic voyage out to sea like a Roman soldier, shooting a stinky diaper from shore to ignite the barge as it burns into oblivion. Garbage day Wednesday will have to do instead.