The beginning of the story is not important.

I handed my heavy, drowsy daughter off to my husband, gratefully trading the sleeper-clad weight of her for the carton of eggs and the cellophane Santa bags I wanted to fill with cookies for the neighbors.  The buzz of hundreds of shoppers waiting in huddled masses for the sale on PlayStations faded into background noise as I noted that the fly on my denim jeans was completely down, and that, due to the way I stand with my hip awkwardly jutting out when I hold the baby, the crotch-region of my pants was bursting open for the world to see in a brass zipper-framed slice of wonder.

The end.