My toddlers are so accustomed to me looking like a vagrant at home that every time I make the slightest effort towards self-respect, they start celebrating because they think we’re going to Cheesecake Factory.

Lipstick, on the contrary, creates panic and tears. “Mommy only wears lipstick when she’s going somewhere we’re not allowed to go. Grab her legs, quick!”

Just yesterday, while they were eating lunch, I snuck off to put on a respectable bra. Sensing I was out of sight after about 30 seconds, they both tumbled into my bedroom and caught me in the act. “Yay!” they shouted and high-fived. “We going to church!”

I just put a bra on, everybody calm down!

But it was too late, they were off putting their shoes on the wrong feet, chattering on about putting fun stickers on construction paper crosses.

I had no idea that I was creating a Pavlov’s Dog situation with my various stages of dress. I want to be one of those Instagram moms, properly showered, gorgeous, boobs well hoisted – ready to face a day of raising children, creating healthy, well balanced snacks, and volunteering at dog shelters.

But it’s of no use. The toddler stage of parenting for me is a fly by the seat of my pants kind of ride. Will we have a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with family or will we stay home because someone suddenly got a fever and keeps vomiting into my cleavage? I guess we’ll find out together!

“This is just the season we’re in and everyone says it goes by fast, so let’s try to enjoy it,” I told my husband last night after we had put them to bed and collapsed on the floor.

“Do you think God made kids super cute for their own survival?” he asked.

“Uh, no doubt,” I said, trying to roll and hoist myself off the floor. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta get out of this respectable bra.”