FOR GIRLS ONLY…panty shame

“Mom! What are you wearing,” my daughter yelled. “It looks like your bottom swallowed your panties!” 

“What are you talking about,” I asked, bewildered.

My seven-going-on- thirty-year-old daughter glared at me with her hands on her hips. I followed the direction of her eyes. She was staring at my underwear. “Oh. This…I am wearing a thong.”

“Did you get confused? Because those don’t fit you, Mommy. Are they mine?” She raised her eyebrows.

I looked down to make sure. “No. These are definitely mine.”

McKinley stomped over to my dresser, opened the top drawer, grabbed a different pair of panties and headed my direction. “Here.  Wear these. They are more appopiet.”

“McKinley.” I snickered. “Put those back. I’m wearing what I have on. And the word is ap-pro-pri-ate.”

She threw her hands up and dropped her head in desperation. “Mom,” She said. What am I going to do with you? You can’t wear things that are inappopiet.”

What is happening?

Ok, timeout! What is happening here? First, she is seven. She can’t even pronounce the word inappropriate, and yet she can use it in the correct context… Smart kid.

Second, she is seven! Why do I owe my seven-year-old an explanation about my underwear decision? Who made her the panty patrol?

Third, either I’m a great mother because my seven-year-old daughter understands how to use “appropriate” in a sentence, or I am a terrible mother because my seven-year-old daughter is traumatized that I’m wearing cheeky undies… 

I tried to explain. “McKinley, I’m wearing these because I’m going to wear pants that are fitted. When pants are fitted, they show the lines of underwear, which makes my bottom look funny. If I wear these,” I pointed to my lower half, “there won’t be any pantylines. So in this case, these are more appropriate,” I said.

“Mommy, that makes no sense,” she argued. “If your butt doesn’t fit in the underwear then you shouldn’t wear it.”

She had a reasonable argument.

“McKinley, I can dress myself. Thank you for your opinion.”

“They are inappopiat,” she argued, again offering me the new underwear.

“I’m wearing pants over them! How are they inappopiat if no one can see them? Ugh.” I was so flustered, I misprounced the word. “I can’t believe I’m defending myself to a seven-year-old,” I said to myself in the mirror.

Please call this child downstairs!

I yelled to my husband, “Please call McKinley downstairs! She wants to watch a show!” McKinley dropped the panties she picked out for me and ran down the stairs.

I sat alone in my room, contemplating my life. I was just lectured about panty appropriateness by a first-grader. But worse – I defended myself… How did this even become an issue?

Wait. Was it McKinley who made me feel like a bad person, or was it something else? Then it hit me! It was him.

My relationship with him is stronger than my relationship with anyone else in my life. Shame is everywhere. He is in my childhood, my teenage and young adult years, and now my middle years. He’s in my family of origin and my nuclear family, my work family, my church family… He is in my friendships, my parenting… He’s in the mirror, staring back at me…

He whispers, “YOU are bad. YOU are the problem. The issue is not about the things you’ve done…it’s about who you are.  Your behavior is just a product of you being a disaster. Why is your kid chastising your underwear? Because she recognizes bad when she sees it, and you have it written all over you…”

Introducing…

His name is Shame. He’s relentless. (He’s even worse than Guilt. Guilt says to feel bad for what you do. Shame says to feel bad for who you are.) Shame spends all his time trying to convince me I should be remorseful for being me. And he does a great job at it.

However, I decided this particular day was going to be different.

“Shame, I recognize your lies. I see how you hold things over me, hoping I’ll cower. I see how you rob me of joy, of success, and esteem. But not today. I’ll hold my head high, put on my big girl thong, and I will even wear red lipstick (gasp)! Why? Because you have no power over me in this decision!”

That was a fantastic day! For one thing, I didn’t have panty lines! But more so, I recognized shame, called him out, and let him go. Even if it was only for that moment, I took back my power. The power to unashamedly wear a thong, introduce my daughter to a girl-growing-into-a-woman- hack, and put that red lipstick on my great big smile!

Goodbye shame, hello…

I realize shame will come and go. After all, we’ve been together for a long time so breaking up will be hard to do. But when I recognize shame, name him, and release him, I can embrace an indescribable freedom to find me. And what do you know? When shame is not around, I actually kind of like me!