Losing My Sense of Privacy
From dealing with Rollie flinging dressing-room doors open mid-change to fielding questions in public about the size of my nipples, I have little sense of shame and absolutely no concept of privacy when it comes to my own body. My son has seen me naked more than my husband has lately. How can he not? He sees me having my bra size measured at the lingerie store, applying pantyliners to my underwear ("Is that a Band-Aid?" he asks), and nursing his little sister. Sometimes I think it's a blessing that kids don't remember much before their third birthday. This way we don't have to sit uncomfortably around the Thanksgiving table while Rollie reminisces about the time he saw me using my husband's nose-hair trimmer and asked why I was picking my nose with a flashlight.
But it's not all bad. Having a mini critic as my shadow has toughened me up a bit, thickened my skin. Let's face it, kids are brutally honest. Especially mine. Rollie constantly points out my imperfections. Your bottom is big, Momma. (Time to go jogging.) Why are your feet so cracky? (Must loofah.) Your breath smells yucky. (Anyone have a Tic Tac?) If someone had even hinted at such things pre-kid, I would have been so mortified I would have balled up armadillo-style and rolled into a hole for months. But that's the beauty of having kids: I am no longer capable of embarrassment.