Pantsed and pained

So, I know that when I was pregnant I must've read any number of cute vignettes from moms whose darling ankle-biters pantsed them in front of the mailman, UPS guy, the Avon lady, or the organic grocery delivery serviceperson, but that was a long time ago, way before I knew I'd be condemned to the Land Where Only Drawstring Pants Fit, and I guess I'd fogotten about them. All I know is that I've been pantsed oh, say, 30 times since the Boy Wonder started pulling up on me, and while it's not my favorite thing, until today it didn't bug me all that much.

And then today, there we were in the kitchen and D-Lovah, as always, was tugging on my pajama pants (it was a little before 4 PM, Wood, but only just a little) when suddenly, the pants slipped down, their pink panty-friends underneath went with them, and of course D chose that moment to lose his balance. Before you could say "Watch the short and curlies, man!" the child had grabbed onto, well, the only thing available in an attempt to right himself and all I can say is OUCH. But since I have been working hard on Not Cursing and Not Yelling (despite my love for the Misfit Hausfrau's tagline "Better Living Through Yelling"), I was proud that I managed to convey my dismay by merely sucking my breath in sharply. Of course, the whole reason I am trying the Not Yelling thing is because it makes D cry when I raise my voice, and when I sucked my breath in in my special "I think my pubes are on fire" way, it made him cry anyway, so whatever.