I was never meant to be a regular mom. If I even had kids, I would be different. I’d be cool, because it’s not healthy to make your whole identity about someone else, especially someone who eats their boogers in the checkout aisle at the grocery store. Flash forward 3 years and there I was, pregnant with my 2nd, unshowered wearing yoga pants tucked into my knock-off Uggs, pushing a stroller to Starbucks immersed in a conversation about home pureed baby food as my former self rolled over in her grave, careful not to smear Chanel mascara on her silk-lined coffin.
Really, I think I preserved my cool pretty well after my first was born. I went back to work after 12 weeks and was forced to presume the identity of someone who had a life beyond spit-up drenched machine-washables. Things started to deteriorate during my 2nd pregnancy, then got serious when we relocated to Walla Walla where I have the tremendous blessing of staying home with my kids and am relieved of the pressure to impress anyone. I know no one, and my only friends are my devastatingly cool nieces and sister-in-law who are forced to hang out with me at our weekly family night. I’ve lost myself in a wilderness of crusty sippy cups, slobbery baby kisses and the involuntary but perpetual question “why bother?” Why make the bed when we’re just going to sleep in it later? Why change out of pajamas when no one will see me anyway? Why wash my hair when it’s just going to stay in this ugly messy bun? If you’re feeling as clinically depressed as I am after reading that I think the answer is clear…we bother because not bothering means taking up residence right around the corner from a high-dose Zoloft prescription.
In an effort to restore some dignity and keep some dollars out of Pfizer’s pocket I’m publicly resolving to the following efforts:
