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The Evils of Panties

I put about as much thought about the panties I wear as I do my socks. That is, when I even bother wearing any.

Which, according to my daughter, means I’m doing it wrong.

Now I’ve been accused of doing a lot of things wrong, everything from how I parent to how I fold socks (I make little sock balls because then they are easier to lob at my kids’ heads) but my pantie purchasing has never been one of them.

Most days my husband is just grateful I’m wearing any. Because more than often I like to declare it Naked day which, for some reason, annoys him.

(A sure sign you’ve been married too long is when your husband insists you wear clothes.)

Ahem.

But a few weeks ago, after doing laundry, I noticed there was a sad lack of undergarments for everyone. The sock monster has taken a vacation and instead of missing socks, all of us seemed to be missing underwear.

So I took it upon myself to take my daughter to the mall and stock up on under garments for everyone but my husband. (My husband insists on purchasing his own under garments ever since I came home with a fistful of shiny gold thongs for him to wear. Apparently the man does not appreciate the true fashion genius of a sparkling banana hammock. Go figure.)

Purchasing for the boys is fairly easy. My youngest will forever be in diapers and my oldest son doesn’t care what I buy for him as long as it doesn’t have cartoon characters printed on the arse. Like his father, he has no sense of humour when it comes to his man-derwear.

As my daughter and I were walking past the rows and rows of ridiculously small scraps of lace that now constitute for panties, I twitched a little and wanted to dig out an invisible wedgie from my butt crack.

Now this might be an over share but I’ve got a hate on for thongs. I’m in the firm camp that thong underwear is just glorified dental floss for one’s arse and should be outlawed permanently.

Which is when I noticed my daughter ogling said underwear.

Not wanting to blow my street cred for coolness, I casually walked up to her and asked her what was up.

“Oh, I just noticed these were the same pair some of the girls on my volleyball team have.”

The girls on her team are the same age as her. Which would make them all fifteen, or almost fifteen years old.

You know what type of underwear I was wearing at fifteen years old? Cotton grannie panties. In fact I didn’t even know there was another option for underwear until I was almost twenty.

“Just a few girls, or all the girls?” I casually inquired as beads of sweat were dripping down my back. I’ll admit I’m old school. I think our daughters today are too exposed to the hypersexualization of women at too early of an age. Between the padded training bras and bikinis for babies, there is nothing I’d like more than to bundle my girl up in a snowsuit until she turns 30.

Somehow, somewhere, I’ve completely morphed into my grandfather.

Turns out, after a series of questions, it is all the girls on her team that wear sexy underwear. In fact, most of the girls in her grade started wearing lacy undergarments when they turned 12.

And their parents are buying these panties for their kids.

I’m sorry but the last thing I want to buy for my kid is underwear to make her look sexy. Heck, I don’t even want her to know what the word sexy means. I want to bury my head into the sands of parenthood and pretend my children aren’t growing up at the speed of light.

Apparently, I’m a dinosaur when it comes to thinking like this. But I just can’t see buying racy underthings for my daughter who has yet to have a real boyfriend when I don’t buy them for myself.

After talking with my daughter I was delighted to hear she is much like me and would prefer comfort over fashion when it comes to what covers her arse. Yay for apples falling not far from the tree.

But as we paid for our purchases of boring cotton underthings, I had to wonder if perhaps I’m behind with the times. Did I miss the parenting memo that urges all parents to shop at Victoria Secret for their daughters when they hit puberty?

Will my child be scarred for life if she isn’t digging out a lace wedgie from her butt cheeks as a child?

I don’t know. All I do know is the idea of my daughter parading around in skimpy sexy panties and matched bras at the age of 15 is too much for this mommy brain to process.

I guess I should be happy she even wants to wear underwear.

Because most of the time, I don’t.

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