Mom Attire

Being a parent means an enormous shift in attire, and not only in the most obvious ways. Sure, I’m not terribly likely to wear my favorite 4 inch wedges to the park to feed the ducks, and my hair and makeup will not often be very flawless due to time constraints. These changes I expected, and even embraced. But some changes I couldn’t have expected because no one talks about them. The things about my appearance that are, at times, almost indescribable except to say that it’s part of my “mommy look”. The things that make me wonder why my husband hasn’t taken my advice and found himself a mistress yet  (Don’t judge - I could use the rest.)

In the newborn phase it was a total disaster, to say the least. My ta tas were leaky, my ass had disappeared thanks to wider hips from birthing Bean’s fat head, and I hardly had time to so much as brush my teeth, let alone shave anything. Any yoga pants I hadn’t bled onto were considered high fashion, and bras with lace and silk had been replaced by monstrosities large enough to cover a Smart Car. In fact, undergarments in general those first few weeks (months?) were so unbelievably plain and unattractive I could not have even sold them in an Amish sex shop. I was fortunate enough to lose the baby weight pretty quickly, but with the Great Migration of body parts that takes place postpartum, I had so little desire to see myself in the buff I spent countless hours trying to figure out how to shower with my clothes on. (Just in case I ever had time to shower again.) I remember sitting there in my nursing tank top trying to figure out how to put in a fresh bra pad without waking the baby who was sleeping on my lap, and thinking to myself “How in the hell does anyone ever have two of these?” (Babies, not bra pads. Obviously I understood why those needed to come in twos) Suffice it to say, the early days were not kind to my physical well-being.

I assumed (erroneously) that once the sleeplessness of the first few months was over, I would have the time to be a bit more put together, for both my husband and myself. I now had time to brush my teeth, shower, and sometimes even put on makeup. My outfits matched every once in a while, and I was  getting more sleep, but Heidi Klum I was not. I would get ready to walk out of the house triumphant in having had the time to attend to my personal hygiene and apply some mascara and gloss, only to realize I still had on a bra that contained just a teensy bit of baby vomit, and possibly a piece of the sandwich I was eating earlier and forgot to retrieve. I would change clothes after Bean spit up on me, only to walk around for hours still being able to smell the rancid aroma of formula and stomach acid. I changed his clothes, my clothes, and washed my hands 7 times. Unfortunately, about ¾ of the way through the day, I realized the smell was wafting from my hair (It’s always the last place you look, isn’t it?) By the time he hit 5 months old I figured it was time to change my toenail polish from the pedicure I had been treated to before my baby shower. (If I could have figured out how to type with my toes, I’m sure it would have made a nice clicking sound as if I were wearing acrylic nails.) When would I be back to my old self?

According to toddlerhood, never. I can’t wear earrings because he pulls on them. I can’t wear my engagement ring because it’s pointy and has scratched him more than once. For the sake of all the folks who see me out and about in a day, I really need to learn not to wear a top he is able to pull down, thus exposing my “rack” to the general public. (Why is this word is quotes? Because quite frankly I’m just not sure what to call the total disaster I keep hidden under a bra these days.) I’ve gotten back to wearing heels and tall boots, but these are usually paired with pants stained with avocado (at least I’m pretty sure that’s what that is) and a top that has no buttons, sequins, beading, or anything else a toddler might think looks fun to bite. My nails are kept short so that when I sweep his mouth for contraband (for the 19^th time in a day) I won’t scratch him. My hair is of no consequence, so long as it’s at a length I am able to tie up and out of the way of grabby, chubby hands. 

And, of course, it’s all totally worth it to have a wonderful child to share my life with blah blah blah. But seriously. I just can’t wait for the night when I go to do a striptease for my husband and an Elmo cracker doesn’t fall out of my bra. (Bonus: we’ve been out of Elmo crackers for three days now. Where the hell did this come from?)