I remember because it was laundry day, and I was buried under a pile of tiny superhero undies, thanks to Ben’s latest obsession.

Glancing out his bedroom window, I almost spit out my coffee. There, flapping in the breeze like a very questionable flag, was a pair of hot pink, lacy panties.

And they weren’t alone. Nope. They had friends — a whole rainbow of underwear dancing proudly in the wind, right in front of my son’s window.

“Holy moly,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Spider-Man briefs. “Is this a laundry line or a Victoria’s Secret runway?”

Ben’s voice piped up behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs. Carly have her underwear outside?”

My face burned hotter than my overworked dryer. “Uh, sweetie. Mrs. Carly just really likes fresh air. Let’s close these curtains, okay? Give the laundry some privacy