Bambino Goodies

Multiple Parenthood

Thank Heavens for Big Knickers

March 25, 2009 by Guest Post in Multiple Parenthood with 4 Comments

thank heavens for big knickersThis week, Emily shares her tale of bearing her big knickers in church…

I blame the Vicar for my momentary lapse of common sense. She visited us prior to the girls’ Baptism and told us how welcome we’d be at their Sunday morning family service. I was feeling an increasing amount of guilt at our part-time approach to religion (Easter eggs, Christmas presents, silver engraved Christening gifts…) and felt I should at least make an effort to take the children to a few services. Big mistake. Huge.

In my book a ‘family’ service would be totally geared for parents of small children; lots of toys, a ban on tutting and shushing, and a duration to suit the attention span of a child ie; no longer than an episode of Charlie and Lola. In fact, if there could actually BE an episode of Charlie and Lola playing in church, it would be a help. But no. It seems my Vicar’s definition of a ‘family’ service is simply one at which there are many other families before whom we can embarrass ourselves.

It started with a poo (doesn’t it always?) just as we were ready to leave, making us late and destroying my plan to slip in early at the back of the church where there is space for the buggy. Nappy (and trousers, and socks, and shoes. Shoes? I mean, really…) changed, we hurtled down the cobbled lane to the church, sweat pouring from my brow. “Mu-mmy its too-oo-oo bu-mp-eeeeeeeee” wailed the Toddler, teeth a-knocking. We creaked open the ancient church door and attempted to negotiate our way inside. A few days previously the locking pin had jammed on the buggy’s front wheels, fixing them in the forward position. Pushing a triple buggy without swivel wheels is like driving a car without power steering through Hampton Court maze. Only less enjoyable.

After ramming two old ladies, crushing the Verger’s toes and knocking over a flower display I was forced to abandon the buggy in the aisle and lug the children to the only obviously available pew towards the front of the church. I immediately issued each child with a box of raisins, and tried to tune into the sermon, which seemed to be something about a donkey. And work ethics. I didn’t know donkeys had work ethics.

With the toddler on my lap I was able to secure each baby on the bench with an outstretched arm either side of me, like human seat-belts, but my biceps were starting already to quiver with the strain (I wondered momentarily if I had hit on the ideal work-out for my bingo wings), and my shortage of free hands was leaving me increasingly vulnerable to the Toddler, who had now twisted round and was inserting raisins into my nostrils.

I began moving my head rapidly from left to right, hissing “NO!” at him, in what I weakly hoped might be mistaken for evangelical writhing. I realised that everyone else had their head bowed in prayer, and I followed suit. “Mummy, everyone’s asleep! Look Mummy! Mummy, don’t go to sleep! MUMMY! MUMMY!” I broke off from my mental wish list for God (health, harmony, peace, a decent lie-in and a Boden rain-coat) and glared him into submission.

“Please stand, for hymn number 96”

Stand? How? Keeping a hand on each of the babies, who have a tendency to stage-dive off surfaces if I release my grip for even a split second, I tentatively rose from my seat, trying to gently slide the Toddler from my lap onto the floor. Aghast at this sudden rejection, he clung like a limpet to my trousers, which gave up the fight with pathetic ease and lowered him down my legs like a human elevator, displaying my flabby bottom to the two dozen rows behind us. No doubt concerned that the odd person near the back hadn’t cottoned onto this unexpected flash of flesh in the House of God, Twin One took it upon herself to inflict her air-raid siren scream on the congregation.

As I stood there, my lily-white ample behind on full display; both arms incapacitated in child-restraint, I met the gaze of the Vicar, who tried valiantly to continue with her sermon; “What we have to be thankful for”. I realised that, over the years of motherhood, one’s tolerance levels for embarrassment rise with each mortifying, child-induced, incident. If I continue at this rate, by my forties I should be entirely impossible to humiliate. And I thanked God that I had given up skimpy sexy g-strings in favour of big, modest pants of humility.

Emily Carlisle is a freelance writer living in the Cotswolds with her husband and three small children. You can read her take on extreme parenting at More Than Just a Mother.

FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

Tagged , ,

Share this post

Related Posts

4 Comments

  1. mothershipMarch 26, 2009 at 7:37 amReply

    Fantastic stuff! Did you giggle or was it too mortifying? I’ve been sitting here shaking and wiping my eyes.
    During our wedding rehearsal the vicar let one rip really loudly but blithely carried on as if nothing had happened. It was an absolutely golden moment with everyone trying to look serious while i was doubled over, literally weeping with laughter and unable to continue. And of course the next day as i walked down the aisle it was ALL I could think of and I can’t set foot in church without thinking about the farting vicar and getting the giggles all over again.

    • NatalieMarch 26, 2009 at 10:09 amReply

      Oh I do love a good fart story! That is brilliant! You should have all blessed yourselves afterwards ;-)

      Honestly Emily, I was crying with laughter when I read this! I’ve had a few close calls but thankfully not at church. The bambino used to like waiting till I was standing by our sitting room window and then yanking down my trousers just as people walked by. As we live on a short but steep hill, if someone is passing by, they will cop an eyeful…

  2. Home Office MumMarch 27, 2009 at 9:18 amReply

    Hilarious – as always. I don’t think I’ve had that level of embarrassment yet. Although maybe I have and have just mentally blocked it.

  3. NicolaMarch 28, 2009 at 12:41 amReply

    Absolutely brilliant. My boys regularly try to undress me in public – they are getting extremely competant in whipping open a cardie to expose a tatty old bra and wrinkled midriff to the crowd. But the trousers are proving to be more of a struggle. My problem would be that I quite often go ‘commando’ in my gym trousers and even my jeans. Heaven help me if the boys finally gain the dexterity to pull my trousers down…I am unlikely to have any form of privacy provided by knickers – big or otherwise.

Leave a reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*

Please note we don't accept comments that are of a promotional or advertising nature (it's unfair to someone we have featured to hijack their post), nor do we accept spam, and please be respectful towards the author of the post, other commenters, or the person featured.

bambinobanner.gif bambinobanner.gif
A Selection Of Our Favourite Books
  • Brilliant – A book about colour
  • My First Book of…
  • Lotta magazine’s Animal Issue is out now
  • Okido My Animal Book
  • Almondella gift boxes
  • The Story Corner: The Wonderful Egg
  • Outdoor Wonderland: The Kids’ Guide to Being Outside
  • The Story Corner: Snuggle the baby board book
  • The Story Corner: Hooray for Bread
  • The Story Corner: 100 Bears
  • Patrick Hruby books at Peanut & Pip
  • The Story Corner: Nurse Mousey and the Happy Hospital
Find us on Facebook
BG’s Recent Pins
  • Hey diddle diddle
  • by marina*R, via Fli
  • Le Petit M Umbrella
  • Easter Morning Panca
  • 10 little camping-in
  • Make a tangerine sna
Follow Me on Pinterest
GET A DAILY UPDATE OF POSTS BY EMAIL
More Bambino Goodies

Disclaimer
Please note that all prices quoted on product posts are correct at time of publishing.
Published By CrackerJack Productions

Copyright 2007 - 2014 Bambino Goodies/Crackerjack Productions, All rights reserved.

Design by Lula Creative. Written permission is needed for resuse of logo or images where the original owner of the work has asserted their own copyright terms.