Some Kind of Mom

I've become that kind of mother.

The kind of mother I shake my head about behind her back.

The kind of mother I make fun of in my blog.

The kind of mother I complain about to my husband.

I recently decided that my daughter is old enough now that I can let her and her brother play in the playground directly behind our house without constant supervision. I can look out a window in any room in my house and check on them. Plus, she's a good little caretaker. And we live on a military base for goodness sakes.

They're playing out there today, with two little kids who are barely old enough to talk. Where's their mother?

A few moments ago I peaked out at them.

And saw my son's lily white, little behind.

He might as well have been wearing a sandwich board that read, "Judge my mother!"

"Oh my god!" I exhaled as I ran toward the back door.

I made it to that sand box in record time.

"Honey! Are you watching your brother?" I yelled as I sprinted.

"Yes," she yelled back.

"Yeah? Are you watching him take his clothes off?"

"Ack!" she screeched. "He's naked!"

As I ran by the little pile of clothes he had left in the grass, I snatched them up. My plan was to cover him and race back to the house. But his jeans and underwear were wet. So I ended up wrapping him up in my arms and scooting the two of us into the house as quick as I could.

Apparently, he was too busy playing to come into the bathroom. And naked is fun.

We are not a naked family!

And now when that obnoxious little girl from next door keeps telling me, "We're not allowed to play in the sand because kids pee in there," I can say, "I know," with great authority.