Sunday-afternoon trauma — though it's questionable who suffered more, me or the kids

Yesterday, as Hubs and I perused the newspaper, I was stricken with what — at the time — seemed a brilliant idea.

"Hey, let's take the kids swimming today."

Hubs raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously, we should," I continued, now foolishly overcome with excitement at my caffeine-inspired genius. "It's a beautiful day."

Hubs still looked skeptical. "You don't even have a swimsuit," he noted.

"Oh, we can buy one on the way," I replied, now firmly convinced we must take the children to the pool. Visions of myself sprawled on a chaise lounge and basking in the sun now danced through my (clearly) delusional mind.

And so I dashed out to the drugstore to buy swim diapers for the E-man and hair-removal lotion for myself — bikini-line maintenance having been ignored during the winter months.

An hour later, as I stood, nekkid in the bathroom, with my bikini "line" (more on that in a minute) coated with the magic hair-removal potion, the door suddenly flew open.

It was the E-man.

"Hee-hee," he chortled. And then, inexplicably — "MAAAAAAAA!!!!" he squawked, fleeing down the hallway.

"Hubs!" I called. "Comfort your son — he's been traumatized!"

Hubs: ?????????????

... and so have I ... because either A.) The ladybits are funny-looking or B.) They are terrifying to small children, which means, clearly, it's been too long since I tended to that area.

Today, looking back, I blame the haste in which I completed this procedure for the end result: A landing strip just the right size for a tiny toy F-16.

But wait, there's more. You must hear details of The Swimsut Shopping Expedition.

(NOTE: I bought my last swimsuit while pregnant with Tootie, when I decided to join a water aerobics class. (I went one time.) Actually, come to think of it, a friend gave that one to me. It was a black, tankini maternity suit. And I continued to wear it long after the births of both children. Need I say more?)

So off we went to the big department store where swimsuits had been marked down 50 percent.

Hubs was charged with entertaining the Little People while I browsed and tried on suits. However — as I stood, once again nude, in a changing room, I heard this:

"No, E-man, this way."

"Mama!"

"No, wait, Mama will be out in a minute."

And then from the Tootie — "Is Mommy in there?"

I froze, as Hubs called out a warning: "They're headed your way."

For the second time that day, the door was flung open, only this time, not only was I nekkid, but my new, ridiculous landing strip also was exposed to the women and children waiting for the next available changing room.

And again — "MAAAAAAAAA!" from the startled E-man.

And this, from the Tootie: "Mommy, is your tummy big because you're going to have another baby? Did Daddy put one there?"

Nope, no baby on board. And there's no danger of one being "put" there because Hubs is most definitely not getting anywhere near the landing strip — because once there, he would absolutely die laughing, which would rather ruin the moment.

So it was off to the pool — with a traumatized E-man, a daughter who thinks I look pregnant, and the secret knowledge of overly ... tended? clipped? manicured? ... ladybits.

... which is why any future such outings will require either copious amounts of vodka or a prescription for Xanax.