Whacking the Jeans

by doodaddy on November 8, 2007

We went hiking today, Boobaby dressed in a new pair of jeans that her mother adores. You know how some folks wrap an entire philosophy of life in the quest for the perfect jeans? Working Mom is one of them. I’ve never quite understood this cult (jeansyism? jeansianity? denimania?), since I’ve worn exactly the same brand, style, and size since I was 16, but there you go.

Anyway, now WM has projected her jeans-obsession onto Boo. Dutifully, I dressed my daughter in what my wife had described as the "perfect" jeans for her, with the result that today’s hike was a slip-sliding nightmare. Boo kept tripping over her own feet, hampered by pants cut too tight in the thigh for as muscular a diaper-wearer as my daughter. I even taught her a new phrase:

"Daddy, pants bind thighs!"

I figure it’ll come in handy later.

Anyway, when we got home, I took out a contract on the jeans. I whacked ’em, snuffed ’em, they’re pushing up daisies. (Actually, they’re just in the Goodwill box, but you see my meaning.)

It was the right decision, but, alas, I’m already nervous about the fallout from Working Mom. I’m thinking at this point that I just play dumb.

"Jeans? What jeans? Haven’t seen ’em!"

But that seems so deceitful. How big can a lie be and still be classified as a little white one?

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tagged as in mischief,whining,Working Mom ·

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