epic parenting failure akin to the one experienced earlier in the year at my other nephew's Bar Mitzvah, so I made a concerted effort to prepare myself and my diaper bag accordingly: I had snacks, a few little toys, and a change of clothes; I was ready for (almost) anything.
I managed to find myself a dress that looked passable on my carrying-a-watermelon shape, I didn't forget to pick up the Hubby's suit at the dry cleaners, and I even put together a snazzy little outfit for the Muffin Man. I was damn proud of myself and ready to rock this Bar Mitzvah. Let me remind you that I am currently seven months pregnant with my second kid, which means that I have gained 30 pounds and essentially have a giant baby bump and a wide ass perched on little toothpick legs. Given the state of my figure at this moment in time, one would wonder what on Earth would possess me to choose to wear the highest heels in my entire closet. We're talking four-to-five inch nude-colored platform heels. Yes, they are gorgeous, and they did look fantastic with my dress, but apparently I have completely lost my mind as well as my svelte figure because this was not at all a wise choice for a woman who is, under the best of circumstances, barely able to walk in flats without falling over her own two feet.
When we arrived at the venue and saw the bimah (or stage, if you will), I noticed that there were about five carpeted steps leading up to it. This would not have been a huge problem had there also been a handrail, but I guess Bar Mitzvahs don't have to be ADA compliant, because those stairs were just floating in space laughing at my footwear choice. I gave myself a little "you can do this" pep talk, reminded the Hubby that he would have to hold my hand to help me get up the stairs, and settled in for some Sephardic music and my nephew's recitation of the Torah.
An hour or so into the ceremony it was time for our big entrance. I got to my feet, marshaled my balance, and picked up Noah to take him up with us. Here's the part I didn't exactly count on: after sitting in a chair for over an hour, my feet were sweaty. Like so sweaty I may as well have been wearing ice skates, because with each step I took my sopping feet slipped in and out of my shoes and made this weird squishing noise. There I am, with a 20-pound toddler balanced on my hip, barely able to stay upright and attempting to walk up a stairway without losing a shoe. I made it up the first three steps without incident but that fourth step got me. My slippery foot came completely out of the shoe, which I then subsequently tripped over, sending myself, my son and my unborn child teetering on the edge of a stair several feet from the ground. I clutched Noah with all of my might, hoping that somehow I could protect him from crashing head first into the cold, hard cement floor, and let out a string of curse words that were not very appropriate given the religious circumstances. I don't think the microphone caught my colorful language, so at least only the first few rows got a taste of my toilet mouth. Thankfully, the Hubby caught me and my precious cargo just before we were about to tumble off of the stage and into the first row of guests. I did my best to gather what was left of my dignity, calmed Noah, and made my way up to the podium for our reading.
The good news is that no permanent harm was done to either of my offspring. My poor nephew, on the other hand, may never recover from having an Aunt who is a hot mess and came this close to turning his special day into a crime scene. However, I do think it's time to retire my high heels until after I give birth, because I highly doubt the term "killer fashion" is supposed to be taken literally.