Mother [muhth-er] (noun) - a repository for the detritus of childhood

Yesterday I went and got a 90 minute massage.  It had been a few months since I had one and I had some Groupon deals in the bank, so J agreed to keep the kids for a few hours so I could get some time to myself.

It was in a funky little massage/accupuncture place up in Arvada.  Hip music was playing, the therapist was all be-tatted and pierced.  The walls were adorned with prints that looked like they were from Thailand.

I felt decidedly uncool in my ratty University of Virginia sweatshirt and jeans that I had used to wipe my hands after picking boogers out of Josie's nose. 

But hey, my money's good, so she led me back to the therapy room, asked me about my "problem areas," and then left so I could get undressed.

I emptied my pockets and took off my rings, disrobed and got under the sheet.

When the therapist came in a few minutes later, she wasn't able to stifle her guffaw.

Not because I tooted when she walked in or had left a bare cheek uncovered by the sheet.

No, she laughed because she caught a glimpse of the table where I had stashed my clothes and the contents of my pockets:

• 1 Android smartphone
• 1 pair dirty jeans
• 1 sweatshirt
• 1 long-sleeved t-shirt
• bra and panties discreetly tucked into fold of pants
• socks and sneakers
• 3 gold rings
• 1 toy car

I always thought I could be one of those cool moms that looked well put together. 

Not so much, as it turns out.