Fabricating Mysteries

I've had another full-circle moment, and I'm choosing to blame it on pregnancy brain.  Any other explanation is too embarrassing to consider.

When Cael was just a baby, we would attend baby music classes, a chance for both of us to get out of the house and socialize, and for me to show off what was undoubtedly the most beautiful baby to be born in the state of Iowa in 2007.

But I was a busy mom, distracted even, and how often do you really look at your kids, anyway?  Really check them over?  Well that day I hadn't, and when we arrived at music class and removed Cael's coat, I was surprised to see a grapefruit-sized hole torn clean from the back of his off-white polo shirt. 

The infamous polo.

I was horrified.  Not in that "what happened to my child?" way, because I knew he was fine, but in that "this conflicts with the image that I've got it all together!" sort of way, and it had to be made clear that I wasn't aware earlier that my dog had quite clearly gotten tired of Iams and developed a taste for Dreft detergent.

Every time someone new entered the music room, I had to reiterate how I was not aware that my son was giving an unintentional peep show, nor was I making a fashion statement or encouraging the worn-in jeans agenda to apply to toddler sizes.  Bottom line, I was embarrassed.

Fast forward six years.

With Spring Break over, Cael was very anxious to get back to school and see his friends, play on the playground and show off his practiced reading skills.  So like any other morning, the boys woke up at what felt like 3am, yet we still struggled to get ready before the bus arrived.  I sent them to their room to get dressed, sent them back when they emerged wearing something less appropriate for school than Miley Cyrus would choose, and finally gave in and made breakfast when Cael showed up at the table in a green thermal t-shirt and jeans he'd pulled from the clean laundry basket.  Good enough.

But when Cael came home from school and scrambled up to the table to color for hours on end, I finally got a good look at him and was confused by what I saw.

"Cael, what on earth happened to your shirt?"

"I don't know, why?"

The back of his shirt's right arm was shredded, stained as if it had been caught and ripped from some greasy mechanism, and chunks of fabric hung on by threads like he'd been in a 1950's rumble from West Side Story.  And the more we discussed it, the more I came to realize that I must have sent him to school just like that.

This time, I wasn't there to defend myself, and unless Oscar's dental issues are much more severe than previously realized, I don't think I can blame the dog, either.  I guess I'll simply have to hope that everyone who saw Cael on Monday has a handful of kids, chores, and a little less time for clothing inspections and music classes than they once did. 

And maybe I'll double-check tomorrow to make sure he's wearing pants.  Don't know what's next, after all...