Crack is whack.

Rather than don my usual mom-at-Gymboree sweats today, I wore jeans (totally conservative-mommed it out with a cardigan). . . .not because I particularly wanted to fix up, but because we just got back from vacation and all of my mom clothes are dirty. Eh.

So, sitting in circle time, singing songs, acting out The Noble Duke of York (umm.. am I the only one who'd never heard of that?), throwing Harper over my shoulder, bending down low to tickle her, lifting and stretching with her on the floor, and pretty much wigglin' on down, I felt a breeze up my back.

You know... the breeze that causes you to say to yourself, "Self, you should be very thankful that you have on a very long, flowy shirt with that perfectly fitted cardigan today, because if it was anything else, these moms and dads and toddlers and grandmas and grandpas might see your butt crack." ((pats self on back for unintentional coup))

Later today, I was stooped, if you will, in a position I had taken at least 10 times at Gymboree to put on Harper's socks and shoes. Enter the breeze.

I casually turned to a conveniently placed mirror to see just how close I had come to showing where the sun don't shine. . .

And found that I had overestimated the flowiness and length of my shirt as well as the rise in my jeans.

Staring back at me? A solid two inches of crack.