Dear (Cotton) Undies,

I need to confront you about something, and it probably isn't going to be comfortable for either of us...but it all must be said. So here goes.

What the hell has happened to our relationship since the birth of my children!?!? All of the adorable, frilly, satin-y pairs of you have mysteriously gone missing, now replaced (seemingly permanently) with your very practical, 100% cotton, full coverage "brief" counterparts. Yikes.  I am beyond sick and tired of folding laundry and wondering why on earth Jeff washed a massive, pastel green parachute-- only to soon realize that said parachute is actually not a parachute, but rather a pair of Grannie panties-- my Grannie panties.  (And for the record, and for the first time ever, I completely understand why this nickname was coined...when I look at a stack of my undies these days, it literally looks like to went to my grandmother's house and raided her drawers.)

You and I promised ourselves that the affair would be a short and sweet one, only to last for the post-partum weeks while my c-section scar healed and all of the other gross-ness of labor & delivery subsided.  So why-- 7 months later-- are you still the predominant undies of choice in my drawer?
Is it your patented comfort-flex elastic waistband? The fact that you are much more flattering on my post-baby tummy pouch than a satin thong might be these days?  Have I gone practical in my maternal years, realizing that all the things my mother told me growing up (that cotton lets you "breathe" more, and is better for your lady parts)  are actually true? Or is it, plain and simple, the undeniable, unparalleled comfort of cotton?

Cotton undies, as much as I loved our time together in the beginning, my husband is getting damn tired of seeing you on my butt cheeks, and I can't blame him.  I wouldn't mind getting together with you on occasion- say, the one week a month when womanhood will have me requiring your assistance.  But this every day thing is beyond ludicrous. I'm putting my foot down and reclaiming some of my saucy, womanly pride.  All it'll take is a Secret trip to my friend Victoria's, and a few dollars worth of some new racy, sensual, "I wasn't made with an 82-year-old woman in mind" undies. (no offense.)

Underoos of cotton, thanks for listening to me. I truly do hope that we can move forward from here, and still be friends. (sorry to be so cliche.)  Thank you for all of your hard work and dedication over the past several months. You were dependable, breathable, and always comfortable when I needed you to be, and there will always remain a place for you in my heart. (and on my bum.)

Warmest wishes for a pleasant stay for you at the back of the underwear drawer,