this morning, as i was hunting around for something for my son to wear, i was worrying that i’m traumatizing him, wandering around the house in a t-shirt & undies. the t-shirt is long, but that’s not the worst of it. we’re kind of an open door household, & he sometimes sees me changing my shirt too. now i know that underwear covers approximately the same thing as bathing suits, & in my case, probably a lot more than some things worn in public. but still.
these are things i remember being distinctly traumatized by in my youth. i remember cold bay area mornings, my mom would get dressed standing over the heater in the living room. the shades would be open & i would be horrified — “motherrr, people can see you”. she’d always claim people can’t see in, but that was little comfort to me.
i remember my dad wandering around the house in a t-shirt & tighty-whiteys. this is not something an impressionable girl-child should have to see, but it was like a car wreck, i couldn’t not look. i shudder, remembering.
& yet here we are, in spite of all this, one of those underwear-in-the-house households. in fact, when my son is done with being outside for the day, the first thing he does is get rid of shoes & pants — t-shirts & undies for everyone. admittedly, this is comfortable. & usually, i wear a long skirt during waking hours, & at least chris wears those long boxer/briefs, which are almost like shorts. but still. when i get up in the morning & am fumbling around like a newborn puppy, eyes closed, whining softly, when the last thing on my mind is finding suitable attire, i worry that i am traumatizing my son with unnecessary views of my undie-clad butt.
when chris’s mom still lived here, i’ll never forget her wandering around the house in a short nightshirt. she has bad knees so she bends at the waist & i’m here to tell you, nobody should have to see that. nobody. childhood traumas don’t necessarily end in childhood.
in so many ways, i disapprove of this. but still, we do it.