I was at a work event a couple of weeks ago, and randomly began detailing to other women the changes I’ve witnessed in my actions, mannerisms, behaviors, etc since taking on the glamorous role of mom. I started to think about it a little more, and actually, it’s kind of funny (and by kind of, I mean really..or sad depending on which way you look at it). So in honor of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share with you all the sassy and seductive things that have happened to me over the course of the last 3 years.
My pants.
No, I don’t mean I started wearing mom pants. I haven’t gone that far…yet. BUT, why won’t my pants stay up???? The number of times that I have to yank those friggin things up per day over my crack…it’s asinine. I KNOW it’s not because they’re too big, as I have REFUSED to buy new ones in a different (that’s code for larger) size (one day, I WILL go back to the gym). So, is it because they’re too small? Too tight? I’ve stretched them out too much? My body has just changed? I, in fact, need mom pants?I don’t have the answer, I really don’t. All I know is that it’s a pain in my arse to constantly be pulling those things up. Sometimes literally.
My bronzer.
I see pictures of myself and it’s almost unacceptable how tan I always look. Not simply because its out of season, but often because my face doesn’t come anywhere near matching the tone of my neck. Weird. And yet, the more tired I am OR the less time I have in the morning…the more bronzer I plaster on. Somewhere, something in my head says…bronzer fixes all (I’ve just STOPPED looking at pictures of myself, as they often disprove this theory). A woman I know told me that her makeup person at Neimans said this: ” Honey, bronzer is not meant to be used as wall to wall carpet”. I told her it was apparent he did not have children.
My shirts.
If anything comes remotely NEAR to touching my abdomen region in what I would consider a clingy manner, it’s out of the question. And if it doesn’t cover the area WELL below my the waist of my britches (because who knows where they’ll be)…definitely not happening. Not to mention, any top which reveals even the slightest curve of my butt cheeks, well I might as well consider it a middrift and give it to my three year old. Tunics are my jam, and I’m ok with that. Truly. What’s HYSTERICAL to me…is that in college, I thought I was fat. Two things result when I think about this. One, I want to kick my own 21 year old butt. Two, I think about the things I would give to have that butt back. Maybe even one of my children (just kidding…i think.).
My eating.
I don’t know if this is some sort of PTSD effect of the first three months of infancy, but I SHOVEL food down my throat. Remember those times when you couldn’t even sit down to eat, you just had to grab what you could, eat as fast as you could and then pray you’d live to see the end of the day, or even another meal? The lingering effects on my food intake strategy are certainly tangible. It’s not pretty, it’s not lady like and inevitably, there is always food stuck in my teeth. I just have to hope that time heals all. Including this. And one day, I will eat like a savage no more.
My showering.
A typical day when I was 25ish? Shower before work. Shower before happy hour. Shower before my big night out on the town. Every event of the day typically warranted a shower, a new hairdo, a fresh coat of makeup and CERTAINLY a different outfit. Typical day post 2 babies? I’m lucky if I TAKE a shower. And if I wear two different outfits in one day, it’s because we’re counting my pajama set as the second.
My bats. In the cave.
Ha. I don’t know if it’s because my brain is constantly on overdrive, and the vanity switch just doesn’t work anymore. BUT, I do know more often times than not that when I look in the mirror, there’s something hanging out of my nose that shouldn’t be. WHY?
My stains.
I SWEAR I go to the dry cleaners, and that I wash my clothes (I mean, I feel like I am ALWAYS washing clothes), but NO MATTER WHAT actions I take to wear laundered, freshly pressed, respectable attire…there is always something on me. I don’t know when it happens. I don’t know if it was already there. I don’t know at what point between the time I put that shirt on, and the time I walk out the door that the inevitable gunk prevails. But it does, without fail. I surrender.
