We’ve all put things in our pockets, forgotten and then found the items later… dummies, lollies, gum, pens, cash, condoms. But what other items do we stash in our pockets? Let’s play a game of “What Am I?” – come on, indulge me, it’ll be fun…
For a dainty scrap of lace
I pack aroma punch
When I’m fresh I’m all roses and sweetness
Otherwise its more roast garlic doused in Clorox – not fit to munch
Yes! I stashed my worn clam openers in my jacket pocket once. I’m sure I’m not the only one to have done that, and its not that cringe worthy right? But this story isn’t about merely stashing my fragrant frillies, its about forgetting I did that and retrieving them in the most INAFUCKINGPROPRIATE parenting moment of my life.
I’d been a single mum for a few years when I signed the boys up for soccer. I tried to make nice with the other parents, but as a potential man-stealing home wrecker, the couples were at best icy, polite judging my singleness.
One particular afternoon Samuel, one of the young boys in the team, received a direct hit to his nose and ran from the field screaming in horror as a scarlet stream flooded his face. He was gulping and gagging on the blood and in a right state as his mother flapped about in a panic. No one seemed to have anything to stop the blood. I knew what to do. I reached in to my pocket for my trusty, over sized, white handkerchief. I always kept one on me, it was a family trait instilled from childhood. Remedy in hand, I thrust the white cotton forward into his face, pressing it firmly under his nostrils. It was then I noticed the intricate lace detail, satin embellishments and diamante stud. “HOLY FUCK!” I screamed internally as I realized I wasn’t holding my handkerchief at all. I was in fact pressing a pair of my previously worn, post-sex thong underwear in to this child’s face. Not the sort of education I wanted to be responsible for.
Did I mention I was also a teacher at the children’s local school? FAAAARRRRK.
I don’t even know who sorted Samuel’s nose out. I stuffed my lacies, stained crimson with his warm blood, back to their hiding place and split. I felt criminal. Mortification at what I’d done and paranoia at the parents’ possible reactions consumed me as I hid, shame faced, in my mummy wagon. With the windows up, the pungent scent wafted from my pocket. Prone to anxiety at the best of times, I tried to force down airy moths of panic, but they escaped and fluttered about the car regardless.
Ok, no one actually said a word, but if they ever held any negative stereotypical beliefs about single mothers, I totally reinforced them. I was horrified they may have thought I was a loose goose, or just grubby and I knew any potential invitations to coffee were screwed – who was I kidding? That was never going to happen. If I’m honest, I did care then, darn it.
But why the hell were my knickers in my pocket? The penny dropped. I had stayed the night at the boyfriend’s place, while my boys were unexpectedly away overnight – a golden ticket for a single parent.
The morning after, I stuffed my crosting laden gonch in to my jacket pocket. I’ve always been a little absent minded. I have no idea how long they were actually there, could have been a few days, weeks, or, god forbid – months! It was after this experience that I turned my back on the family custom and threw out the handkerchief stash. We became a tissue using family.
I only began to see the funny side of this experience recently, when reading great posts on BLUNTmoms. My scars have finally healed. Hopefully Samuel’s have too! Sorry mate. And single mums, go forth and enjoy your golden tickets when they present – just be careful where you put your knickers.
(This author has chosen to post anonymously lest she get pick pocketed by dirty-panty stalkers)
