Before making an appearance, the queen dons her crown. And I? I put on Mom Jeans.

One does not simply wear Mom Jeans, nor are they accidentally acquired. They have purpose. “Like a bra?” you ask.

Well sure, bras do have a purpose in life, holding up the deflated balloons on my chest. But most women wear bras, whether or not they’ve pushed out a baby or had their stomach sliced open for the retrieval of said baby. So no, a bra is not the same thing. Good try though.

Mom Jeans have seen it all, done it all

One holds the Mom Jeans reverently, giving them the respect they command.

Who am I kidding, my Mom Jeans live on the floor between wears, crumpled and lifeless. They are lonely; the beige carpet makes a rather boring friend. They are stepped on by tiny feet, large feet, thrown into the laundry hamper, pulled out of the hamper before they can be washed.

They bare scars. The bright orange glow of Kraft Mac N Cheese. Baby food pea green. Breast milk. Formula.

They could be read, like a palm.

“Follow the line of grease stains down to the knee, follow the… are those tooth marks? Yes, follow the tooth marks to the cherry red stain. You made onion rings for dinner and teething is in your future.”

They would provide a lot of clues to the forensics team if this was a murder case.

“Based on the dried snot on the leg of the pants, it appears an 18-month-old wiped her nose on the Mom Jeans. Judging by the path of the snot, it appears the jeans were being worn at the time of the nose wipe. Empty Kleenex boxes are scattered throughout the house. Grocery list on counter does not have Kleenex written down. This mom didn’t have her life together.”

The brilliance of Mom Jeans runs deep

They can’t be labeled simply as jeans; these babies are more diverse than you are giving them credit for. Napkin. Tissue. Diaper. Leash. Dish towel. Tourniquet. Scarf. Rag. Tear wiper. Scream muffler. Purse. Flag. Pillow. Wash Cloth.

I snatch them off the floor desperately, passionately.

After six years, their brilliance is not lost on me. I marvel at their ability to stretch; a cross between jegging, legging, and jeans. Cotton, elastic, polyester. They have faded, much like the sky fades from navy blue to a light blue as the sun rises, and have evolved to the perfect color to hide the pee that escapes when I sneeze.

And the button, oh the button! How has it suppressed the tension, containing the ever-rising yeast dough of my stomach, without rocketing off to the moon?

Getting the sacred Mom Jeans onto your body

A stillness settles over my body as I prepare for the task at hand. My heart rate slows, my mind clears, all sphincters in my body contract. I am ready for my modern corset: Mom Jeans. I slip my toes down the first leg hole, breathing a sigh of relief as they go in smoothly, half painted toenails gliding across the blue denim.

I imagine myself, ten pounds thinner, stretch-mark-less, childless. If only there was a Mom Jeans solution for my face, with wrinkles sprouting like tulips in the spring, complemented by the dark circles under my eyes.

But alas, the jeans are not on yet. I slip my second foot down the leg hole. Smooth sailing thus far; yet, I know that the hardest is to come.

The Mom Jean’s have a brain of their own. They glare up at my thighs, gulping, as I glare down at them. If only thighs could suck in. I pray them past my thighs.

They smirk, whispering, “Next time use a little WD40 before you put us on.”

I smirk back, whispering, “Wait until I do squats in you.” It is enough to silence the Mom Jeans.

Herculean efforts are rewarded with snug, comfortable Mom Jeans

I suck in, my small intestines crawling up and hiding in my large intestines, stomach flattening against my liver, bladder, wishing I hadn’t chugged four mugs of coffee. I pull the jeans together, closing the crevasse between zippers, an act of strength inspired by Zeus himself.

At my annual physical, the questionnaire asks if I work out regularly.

I put on my Mom Jeans at least six days a week, so yes. Weightlifting, check. Cardio, check.

I’m sweating. I inch the buttonhole over the button, millimeter by millimeter. I’m in kindergarten again, struggling to button my coat. My fingers shake, getting slippery with sweat. But I persist. And like a cat pouncing on a mouse, at just the right moment, I loop the hole over the button, securing my jeans.

The Mom Jeans groan under pressure. You know how sometimes you put an article of clothing on and it sounds like it has ripped, but really it hasn’t? That noise is noted. They stretch, thanks to their genetic makeup of jegging and legging.

The Mom Jeans are on, I repeat, the jeans are on. Success is sweet, but I can barely walk.

Drop it like a squat. Then get back up.

I do a couple of squats to try and loosen the jeans, make them walkable, inhabitable. I drop down, trying to mimic someone who knows how to do a squat. Mom Jeans aren’t having it. My granny panties are visible now, Mom Jeans, down. I can barely breathe as they cut off my entire digestive system, waistband from hell clenching like a tourniquet.

After three squats, I am able to walk in the jeans like a normal person, though my entire digestive system is cut off by the waistband and I won’t be able to digest any food I eat until the jeans are off. My quality of life is high, real high.

Mom Jeans even have a personality

Mom Jeans are a lifestyle, a brand, an extension of my personality. Sometimes they even become a part of me; an extension of my body, after my knee pit sweat permanently suctions them onto my leg.

You know what I’m talking about. Don’t act like you are above knee pit sweat.

They stretch just right (after my squats that is), so when I kneel down to ask my three year old why she thought it was a good idea to punch her sister in the face while I was watching, I can maintain eye contact for the stare-down that is parenthood.

They are perfect for my active lifestyle. Just like Activia, except better. They flow with me as I move through a vinyasa of poses to clean poop off of every surface known to man after my child who has not earned a certificate in wiping, attempted to wipe without telling me.

See, Mom Jeans are flexible. Just like me, when I’m trying to chase my child through the tunnel at the playground. Thank goodness they have the little windows throughout the tunnel so you can call for help if you get stuck. They hide that pooch, giving me an air of authority, so that when I strut through the playground gates, aviators on, the kids of the park whisper, “It’s the fruit snack lady!”

I fling the crinkly packets up in the air, like dolla bills.

Bow down before the Mom Jeans Queen

My loyal subjects swoop down to collect the gifts I’ve scattered. Then they realize they can’t open them, so I have to open a million packages of fruit snacks. And then, for a glorious minute, it is silent. My peons can’t talk as their mouths are glued shut with the 10 fruit snacks they attempted to eat at one time. The silence is blissful.

I put on my aviators and take a swig of lukewarm coffee, relaxing on my throne that is the wet park bench. Like the Queen wears her crown, I wear my Mom Jeans.