Ask any one of my single or childless friends and they will tell you, I do not sugarcoat the unpleasantries that are Motherhood. Its in the moments of wearing the same shirt for 4 days, pulling dried spit up off my skin in the same fashion of a sunburn victim, sucking boogers out of noses, telling myself for the hundreth time " I'll shave tomorrow.." and being elbow deep in poop on a daily basis that I realize I have seriously neglected the art of being a woman. Not that I was ever any good at the pretty stuff anyway, but even the most neglected of women have their standards. Ever since my Max was born, I have become a stagnant piece of furniture, blending in with the curtains.. that seriously need a facelift. The last time I plucked my eyebrows, the government was shut down..its a jungle up there.
Its easy to do, the forgetting that is. Raising two boys and caring for a color coordinating challenged husband does have its advantages. Im never expected to wear makeup or paint my fingernails. I have no little princess I feel a need to model for. In my earshot I get the imagery that comes from my Eli telling daddy about how his poop came out like a nuclear explosion this morning. Hes been battling a stomach virus on and off for 2 weeks. Ive stopped washing his little undies, and have opted to throw each and every destroyed by nuclear explosion pair away. My bank account hates it, but newsflash, my sanity will always take shotgun to money. I imagine the forgetting will only get worse as time goes on. When crusty socks and food stained shirts become the norm as my little boys morph into men. Dont get me wrong, sometimes I mourn the loss of days spent showering, shaving, blow drying my hair AND applying makeup all in one session, uninterrupted. Some days I want to put on a little extra makeup and a cute top..then my 2 month old projectile vomits undigested breast milk onto that cutesy top and I snap back to reality.
This isnt a complaint. Not by a long shot. I clean up dried puke that sat in my Elis room for 13 hours before he told me about it because "he forgot" (yes, Im sad to say THAT happened) or feed my little squishy while he blows out a diaper on my lap, right after I changed into fresh clothes from the last explosion. I rather do these things, gritting my teeth and pursing my lips the entire time, all the while feeling like the Frankenstein of all moms, than be perfectly groomed, waxed, manicured and dressed to impress. If feeling like a manly slob of a woman is the price of complete happiness, I can deal..for a few more years at least. In the dead of night while Im half asleep, feeding a baby who wont stop crying..when my face is darkened with black bags under my eyes and my hair looks like a tumbleweed in an old western, my husband sleepily wraps an arm around my back and gently rubs circles there and I realize, he doesnt care about how "womanly" or pretty I am...and neither should I. I need to stop thinking that my appearance in any way shape or form has something to do with the kind of wife and mother I am. Like I said before, if these things are the price of happiness, sign me up for a few more years of poop and throw up.
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