I went to the dentist a few days ago, lugging both little people there with me (hey, the dentist said I could, so why not). Shockingly, they both behaved like their toy privileges depended upon it, which they kind of did.
But here's the best part of the trip: As I was leaving, walking down a very long hallway as MJ and Little L peered into each exam room and watched the drills (is there a worse sound, I ask you?), a dental hygienist bolted out of her patient's room, followed us up to the reception desk and stopped me.
"Where," she asked, all urgency, "did you get those jeans?"
I looked down at my sweet Old Navy low-risers, which just that morning I had pondered tossing out because of the tears in the hems at the bottom. (I flipped the rips up and wore them anyway, because that's how I roll.) Wow. Good thing I didn't, I thought.
"These jeans?" I asked her.
"No, no," she said, still with the urgency in her voice, "I meant those jeans."
She pointed to the ones on my one-year-old.
"I just had to come down here and ask," she told me. "I just love them."
This actually happened, people. I got out-vogued by a kid who can't even walk yet. What does that say about me?
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