No one can say I wasn’t warned.  It’s not one of the things they mention in the book, What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  Its one of those nasty little secrets friends like to whisper once you’re already pregnant (or in my case, once the adoption paperwork is in).   By then, it’s too late to turn back. 

 I still remember the first time I was warned.  My husband and I were at a picnic for adoptive families and those waiting for referrals.  We met Loreen and Stephen who were adopting their second child.

 We were talking about how kids change your life – as if we knew. 

 Loreen confided, “You know, B.C. – before children – my style was definitely Sex in the City.  Now, A.D. – after diapers – it’s more like The Muppets Do Desperate Housewives.”

“…I’m just happy when I can get out of the house with clean clothes on,” sighed Stephen.

 I chuckled, thinking, “Surely, they jest.”

Expectant parents are so naive.  They also believe they’ll never feed their kid McDonald’s.

Three months after the arrival of our twin daughters, I went back to work. At the first Board Meeting after my return, I had a presentation to make—in front of 30 Directors of the Board. Before leaving the house, I bent down, hugged my toddlers and said, “Wish me luck.”

They did. 

As I got up to take the floor, I glanced down to discover four little yogurt handprints on my thigh-length navy jacket.  Flip charts make wonderful camouflage.

Then there was the time someone complimented me on my pin. 

 “What pin?  I don’t remember putting on a pin.”

There, adhered to my Fair Isle sweater, were three bright, multi-colored fruit snacks.

And I’ll never forget the family photo where I have spit-up globs smeared across my left shoulder.  I asked my husband, “How could you let me go out of the house looking like that?”

 “Looking like what?”

Whoever invents vomit detectors for shoulder pads will make a fortune.

 Now, the damage to the wardrobe doesn’t stop with the food. Something happens to the clothes themselves.  They self-destruct just to get even.  To compound matters, they don’t get replaced.

 The results? 

 The elastic in my underwear’s so stretched out that it’s in testing for bungee jumping.   My bras are so saggy, I’m selling them on e-bay as double-barrel slingshots.  Some of my shirts are so threadbare that whole quilts are dying to be fabric donors.

Worse, the clothes that aren’t busy self-destructing are trying to turn vintage.  Those blue and gray striped, flare-leg hip huggers I once wore in high school would be the cat’s meow right now if I hadn’t chucked them in a donation bin a year ago.  I can just see it – some teenage Thrift Store Shopping Diva has matched them with a ruffled-front Mod Squad-flowered shirt and is parading around, the height of Retro Chic.

You know, I get annoyed when I actually do get out shopping.  All of the clothing is designed for women under child bearing age.  I’ve finally realized this is done with a purpose. Clothing designers are simply protecting self-interests.  Gerber’s on Ralph Lauren is like a Barbie sticker on a Harley.

 I keep thinking that once my daughters are old enough to buy some of their clothes with babysitting money, my wardrobe will return to its former state of elegance, but I suspect I may be in for a shock.  I’m haunted by the tale my friend Elaine tells about watching TV with her teenage daughter.  Her daughter has been campaigning for Elaine to update her wardrobe.

“Can you believe it?  Renee gave me a top with spaghetti straps for my birthday so I’d be ‘fashionable’!  I’m sorry …they’re spaghetti straps – meant for meatballs, not melons.”

She continued, “So, the other night, we’re watching this TV show, Your Clothes Should Be Outlawed.  You know, that reality show where they strip the worst-dressed audience members of their clothes and dress prisoners in them as a form of torture.”

“Suddenly, Renee runs screaming from the room and comes back laughing hysterically.”

 “Mom, notice anything?” she asks, holding up my favorite top.

 “The show’s fashion victim is modeling my sweater.”

 After this story, I take strange comfort in one thing: I will never have to worry that my clothes will be hijacked for college by two envious teenage daughters.

By Carol White Llewellyn
Copyright 2008 © Carol White Llewellyn
Originally published in Genesee Valley Parent Magazine, November 2008