What IS Victoria's Secret?

I went to Victoria's Secret today.

With the kiddos.  And my bulky-ass stroller.  I even had a Diet Coke in the stroller's convenient cup holder.  I put some red lipstick on, wrapped myself up in my sassy, zebra print scarf, and walked right on into that store.  With my little head held high.

Cam started screaming and pulling brasseries off of tables.  (He kept going for the holiday "jingle bell" bras because they were...noisy?)  Lilly started doing the "potty dance" while continuously asking, "What are we doing in HERE?"  She would follow up her inquiry with a snappy retort of:  "This store is weird."

Good grief.

"I told you, Lil," I said with a sigh, "Mama needs to get a gift for Danelle."  (Side note:  My "cute as a button" little brother is tying the knot a week before Christmas.  I adore his sweetheart, Danelle!  I'm taking a road trip over the weekend to attend a bridal shower for her, my "soon to be" sister-in-law.  Hence my excursion to purchase something "va va voom.")

Well, today I learned a valuable lesson:  Don't even bother taking your little children into that store.  Even if you're armed with Diet Coke.  Somewhere between the lacy panties and the bustiers, my baby boy went berserk.  He kicked his legs, swung his arms, and started grunting and snorting like a wild hog.  (But I've never met a real wild hog.)  Ms. Lilly thought this was hysterical, and commenced shrieking and laughing like a dolphin--high-pitched, chirpy, and LOUD.  She quickly discovered that the more she poked Camren, the louder HE got.  Truly, it was an all-out fiasco.  A couple of annoyed patrons glanced my way with a scowl as I rubbed my aching temples.  I could think of only one thing:  Victoria's "secret" is birth control.

I made my selection and draped it across the stroller's "canopy."  (Which Cam was trying to RIP OFF!)  I zigged and zagged around hot pink nighties and polka dot slippers, finally making my way to the register.  Lilly tugged at my pantleg, eager for my attention.

"Mom?  Mom?  Are you going to get something for you?"

I was tired.  I was ready to leave.  In a weak moment of utter frustration and exhaustion, I muttered, "Nope.  Nothing for me.  Having kids has killed my sexy."

The real kick in the hip-huggin' yoga pants with the word, "PINK," on the butt is this:  My "mutter" wasn't as quiet as I thought.  When I looked up I saw three employees staring AND giggling at me.  I felt my cheeks flush a hue of red.  A warmth signifying embarrassment crept up my neck.  The gentleman behind me cleared his throat.  All I could do was smile.

Anyone know how I can get my sexy back?