Bigger Picture Moment: Pants Optional

It's a summer evening in 2005, and I'm standing at our kitchen sink with my forearms submersed in bubbly water.  It's like I'm playing house: we don't have kids yet (although there's a baby Mia brewing in my ever-expanding belly); I bake muffins a few mornings a week; I revel in the task of keeping our home cozy and clean.  I sing myself a song, perhaps, as I scrub the dishes that won't fit into our sparkly-new dishwasher, and I gaze out the window at the glorious world.

I am insanely happy, looking forward to a lifetime of that same insanity with my caring, gentle, gorgeous husband.  As I scrub last night's hamburger helper (newlywed alert!) from a skillet, that husband rounds the corner into the kitchen.  He comes up behind me and I brace myself for a hug or perhaps a wayward grope. 

Instead, I am surprised by my soft pajama pants being tugged down to my ankles.  Justin laughs criminally, knowing my hands are occupied with soap suds and dishes, before darting away into the other room.

I've been pantsed, and my bare backside shivers in the air conditioning.  It is moments before I can rinse and dry my hands enough to pull my pants back up and seek retribution.  But within half a second, I know that I can't wait for this baby girl to bring some feminine camaraderie to the house. 

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It is a February afternoon in 2011.  After stripping down my daughters from their snow-wetted gear, I'm in the laundry room switching things from the washer to the dryer.  I still love playing house, trying to cozy-up the joint, but it takes quite a bit more effort and forethought these days: time is always short.  In the bedroom, I hear Justin laughing with his girls -- a 30-year-old daddy with 5-year-old and 2-year-old daughters.  Girly, frilly, sometimes dramatic daughters. 

I smile at the sounds of their laughter and wonder how my life ever became so full, so blissfully insane.  I spread a damp sweater across the ironing board to dry, before leaning back over the dryer to check for more. 

Suddenly, I hear the patter of tiny, girly feet behind me, and a conspiratorial giggle from the hallway.  Before I think to wonder what joke is being perpetuated, my soft leggings (which -- of course -- are so clingy that they grab hold of my underwear) are pulled down.  My backside is bare once again. 

My sweet, darling Mia -- the one who was to save me from boy-ish pranks -- can barely breathe for laughing so hard, but she somehow manages to scream Pantsed Ya! before dashing away to hi-five her dad.

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The insanity knows no gender boundaries around here.  And it's a good thing I can embrace insanity -- pant-less or otherwise. 

We're sharing our Bigger Pictures -- our simple moments that show us the truths of our worlds -- over at Alita's place today.  Stop by to share your own and visit others!