Jeggings are the mum pants of the 21st century, and I am totally OK with that.

I look pretty much exactly like this when I wear jeggings. This virtually is me.

I was shopping with my daughter when it happened.

She had just been discharged from hospital, after a particularly nasty accident that involved a schoolyard game of tip, a very large door, and a finger caught in a hinge. She was feeling pretty battered and sorry for her little self, so I thought a trip to the “really cool shopping centre” (AKA Westfield Miranda) to spend her birthday money was just the ticket.

After a rousing hour long bear creation session at Build A Bear, I dragged Phoebe to Target. “We can look at Shopkins!” I suggested with enthusiasm. But she knew, as well as I did, that we were going to Target for one thing, and one thing only: jeggings.

I believe that Target jeggings are the superior jegging. I am tall with long legs, and they are the only jeggings I have found at a reasonable price that do not look ridiculously short on me. They have a kind and forgiving waistband that neither digs in, nor roles down. They are stretchy, but not so stretchy that they lose their shape. In my mind, Target jeggings are what all pants should be. And for $20 a pop, you can’t go wrong*. These jeggings are the poo.

So there I was, in front of a pile of stretchy denimy goodness, trying to decide whether I needed black jeggings, dark blue jeggings, or all the jeggings, when a group of younger women wandered towards me. They reminded me of me ten years ago (OK, fifteen years ago, shuddup already), meandering through the shops for pleasure, no urgency, no bored eight year old complaining that they wanted to look at Shopkins. They were shopping for leisure.

“Oh, look, jeans! Twenty bucks!” the first one commented.

They perused, and another girl picked a pair up, observing them critically.

“Nah,” she said, “they’re jeggings.” She looked pointedly at me. “Jeggings are, like, the mum jeans of the twenty-first century.”

The three giggled, and looked at me, battered child in tow, makeup free, wearing whatever the fuck I could find that fit the brief of fitting and being clean simultaneously. I may or may not have brushed my hair that day, I don’t know. And then they walked away, leaving me, my kid, and a pile of apparent mum jeans behind. They didn’t look back, and I doubt they gave us a second thought.

I didn’t know whether it was offensive or not. Are mum jeans offensive? Is being a mum and wearing jeans a bad thing? Is being a mum, and wearing amazing, comfortable, stretchy denim pants, that happen to look decent and actually make me feel good about myself a bad thing?

I decided, resolutely, that the answer is no. If jeggings are the mum jeans of the twenty-first century, sign me up and stuff me in. I am a proud wearer of mum jeans. Mum jeans are amazing. For so many reasons.

Jeggings are great for controlling the mum tum. When you have had that particular area of your body stretched to the extreme on several occasions, it stands to reason that it isn’t going to go back to it’s original flat state. A good pair of high waisted jeggings, with their amazing flab holding capabilities, have the ability to flatten that particular area to the point where it at least vaguely resembles the stomach of your early 20s. If you squint and look from an angle.

Jeggings offer a presentable alternative to proper pants. If I could rock my tracksuit pants and running tights every day, I probably would. Unfortunately, there are occasions in my life where dressing like my only clothing requirement is “don’t be naked” is not an option. My office dress code is ‘office casual’. Jeggings and whatever clean work top I happen to find, with boots or ballet flats, are a no-fuss, zero thought solution. Solution, people!

Ain’t nobody got time for buttons. Or zippers, for that matter. I have, on average, 2 minutes and 27 seconds to get ready in the morning. If I am lucky, I manage to have a shower. There is certainly no time for things like flamboyant hairdo’s, excessive makeup, and fiddly fashion items. Pants that I can literally pull on in one single move are the kind of pants that I need. Half the time, the general public is lucky I had time to put pants on at all. 

Comfort is a consideration when your fashion is functional. I have long abandoned the notion of fashion as pain. Uncomfortable pants, much like stiletto heels and anything with the word ‘bodycon’ in the title, have no place in my wardrobe. If I have to wear it, I damn well want to be comfortable in it. I don’t need waist bands that dig, denim as stiff as cardboard, or pants that require me to perform a ritualistic ‘tight jeans’ dance every time I put them on. I want to be able to bend, dammit. My jeans need to be ready, at a moment’s notice, to take part in a chase across a playground for a runaway toddler. They will have paint, vomit, and assorted food items spilled on them. They will be used as a convenient thigh high tissue for a sobbing toddler.

I recently conducted a focus group**, and discovered that not everyone shares the sentiment of the Target girls. My focus group was enthusiastic in their appreciation of jeggings. It appears that comfort and efficient fashion time management appeals to people from all walks of life. Who would have thunk it?

Please enjoy this extremely poor photo (both in quality and composure) of me enjoying my Target jeggings. See the joy on my face? It has nothing to do with the pink dildo between my boobs, I promise you.

*This is not a paid or sponsored post. I have no affiliations with Target at all. However, if anyone out there happens to work at Target, and would like to send me a box of amazing jeggings, I won’t complain. Could you chuck in a nice jacket and some new undies, too? Cheers.

**The two people who have sat in the chair next to me while I have been writing this post.


The Eff Word


Phoebe: Mum, Daniel told me that he’s going to call me the eff word!

Me: [sigh] Dan, it’s not nice to call your sister the eff word.

Dan: But, mum, Phoebe called me lots of eff words!

Jared: Eff word! Eff word! I want to sing the Gay Pirates song!

Me: Dan, what do you mean Phoebe has called you lots of eff words? How many eff words are there?

Phoebe: I would never call Daniel the eff word. I would never call anyone the eff word.

Dan: [frustration increasing rapidly] But you did call me eff words. It’s not fair! I hate this day.

Me: Dan, what do you think the eff word is?

Jared: Gay Pirates! Mum, sing me Gay Pirates!

Me: [loading Gay Pirates by Cosmo Jarvis on YouTube, handing phone to Jared] Dan, seriously. What do you think the eff word is?

Dan: [bordering on sulky tantrum] … know them.

Me: Yeah I do, but this time I want you to tell me, so I understand what you think the eff word is.

Dan: [staring reflectively (ok, blankly)] Ummmmmmm….. I want to hear Shut Up and Dance after Jared’s turn.

Me: Daniel! For crying out loud, what is the eff word? Stop stalling!

Dan: I’ll tell you if you let me play music on your phone. I want Shut Up and Dance. And that other song you know I like.

Me: Dan, I’ll let you play whatever song you like, just say the eff word!

Dan: [thinking for a while] OK. The eff word is………

Phoebe: You’re going to let him say the eff word? That’s not fair!

Me: Phoebe [warning glance] just chill. Dan, say the eff word.

Dan: OK. The eff words are…….. Fart [giggles]. Fanny [giggles more]. Fluff. Farty-fluff-fanny [hysterical laughter].

This conversation is pretty much my life at the moment. I’m impressed though, that Daniel doesn’t know the real ‘F’ word. Especially with me as a parent.

Obligatory photo for cheeky cuteness factor