your pants go to your boobies

I am going out tonight.

I would like to look presentable; nice even.

I have discovered it is not that easy a task to get oneself into a state of loveliness before seven pm.

Spotting a rare quiet moment around five I leapt in the bath finding a small space between a shark and a bathroom activity centre in which I could position myself. With the speed only a mother can muster I tackled the amazonian forest that had grown on my legs and then had a thorough wash using my Buzz Lightyear flannel and Disney Princess body wash.

Downstairs my absence had begun to be conspicuous and I began to hear BB’s protests as he who helped create them attempted to navigate a unwanted heaped spoon into her mouth.

Wrapping myself in a towel ignoring the smears of sudocrem I persisted with my beauty regime debating whether to apply body cream but being a little dubious of Tinkerbelle’s claims that I would smell like flowers I decided against.

Styling my hair became a five minute blast with the dryer followed by magic fairy dust smeared on my GHD’s so my unruly frizz miraculously turned into an almost smooth bob.

The wails from downstairs were getting louder and with guilt overriding I interrupted my selfish luxurating pamper session to draw BB a bath; then with my best fish wife impression I bellowed down the stairs to tell he who helped create them to wash the baby.

Make up application was administered whilst simultaneously wiping a backside and checking my ebay sales (ok not vital to the process of getting ready but very important as it determined the budget for the night). Foundation, powder, eye shadow, blusher, and lipstick were all successfully slapped on before the countdown conundrum timer went bedebebedebebumu.

BB then came my way for the process of feeding whilst I also successfully filled in the cracks of my toe nail polish taking care to not paint my skin. I also managed to partake in a healthy debate about the existence of Fireman Sam whom we had bumped into earlier that day. I adopted the pro existence stance working on the argument that we had seen him so therefore he was real. Twin boy admonished my claims and and sealed a victory by stating ‘he didn’t talk, so he was not the real Sam.’

BB fell asleep beautifully and settled sweetly in her cot and I then instructed the babysitter (nanny) to prepare a nutritious meal of assorted canned foods for the elder pair whilst hunting in my knicker drawer for a pair of tent sized pants.

Pants were carefully pulled on ensuring no muffin top between them and bra strap; and frock was quickly yanked over the top. A ridiculous pair of heels was added to complete the ensemble and viola I was ready to go.

Not quite stunning, but twin girl told me I looked good but she is not sure about my hair. Twin boy told I look good and he particulary liked my eyelash and my new tallness. Both then took delight in lifting up my dress to check out the big pants whilst laughing hysterically screaming your pants go to your boobies.

Feeling good! I am going out!