Painted Nails

I went out to dinner with some of my mom friends a couple of weeks back.   I had to wear a headband to cover my roots.  My eyebrows hadn’t been waxed in weeks and I hadn’t been to the gym in a long time.  I didn’t know what to cover up first, my hair, my face, or my spare tire.  Rock Bottom! My personal hygiene had been thrown out….the…window.  I felt like crying.  And it isn’t like I could get it done in all one shot.  “Here mom, take the babies, I’m going out for the entire day.” Not gonna happen.  How many hours do all of those things take altogether?  6, maybe 7? And, how many hours do I have?  A big fat 0.  It would have to be spread out among weekends when my husband is home.  Perhaps my parents would visit for the day and I’d be able to steal an hour for that wax.  Can I go for a run with the double stroller?  Perhaps, if those dang wheels wouldn’t get stuck in the turns.  Bottom line, it takes time and help to keep it all up; to feel like myself.  To look, hmm, what’s the word….human?  

The funniest thing about it all is that my girls are always put together.  Of course, I’ll take time to get them camera ready.  And as I stand there, snapping pictures of the matching outfits and bows, I am behind the camera with a bun in my hair and the same ripped sweatpants I tend to wear every day.  I’d like to say that I will teach my girls that appearance doesn’t matter.  But that is a crock.  And I don’t even think it is a good lesson.  Appearance definitely matters.  When we look good, we feel good and it makes us all better mothers, workers, wives, girlfriends, and friends.  After all, I wouldn’t want my 2 girls walking around with hairy armpits and overgrown eyebrows.  Not a good look.  My girls will brush that hair, pluck those eyebrows, and wear outfits that make sense.  Look your best.  Because, I do feel that if you feel good, you perform well.  Whether you are a mother or an overworked business person, the bottom line is that we need to feel like women and we need to feel beautiful. 

I will continue to find moments where I can get a wax and dye my hair.  I will continue to try and feel beautiful.  But, I will also embrace those moments where I look like a slob and try not to cry about it.  It is what it is and I know that one day, I will have the time again.  And now, as I sit here typing with my freshly painted nails, I know these nails will start to chip and I’ll think to myself, when will my next hour come?

The Mediocre Mom

This morning I took my 2 ½ year old daughter, Cayleigh to music class.  As we were singing the goodbye song, I looked up to see another mom staring off into space, with a distant glare and a slight but noticeable frown on her face.  My first instinct was to nudge my friend next to me and laugh.  And we did.  “What a grump,” we said to each other in the elevator after class.  But then I thought to myself on the way home, who am I to judge?  I mean, that is one of my mantras…do not judge.  I won’t judge.  I can’t judge.  The only person I’m allowed to judge is myself.  And I do.  I judge myself…on a daily basis.  And I feel ok with that.  Because, as I’ve heard so many times, you must forgive yourself for your mistakes, and I do. I practice that advice every single day of my life, especially when I’m the one staring off into space.  And, I did that just yesterday.  Cayleigh was playing with her doll house and my other daughter, Kendall was rolling around on the floor with her toys.  I caught myself staring out the window.  I’m sure there was a slight frown on my face.  I wasn’t tickling, wasn’t pretending to be the mommy and daddy living in the dollhouse, wasn’t even acknowledging my children.  For a span of a few minutes, I was that staring mother in music class…the mediocre mom.

How many times have I waited that extra few minutes to pick up my whining 6 month old to finish my ‘words with friends’ game.  How many episodes of Dora will get me from 4 pm through bedtime?  Most of the time, I feel mediocre, at best.  I pray for patience every day.  I pray that I can take a deep breath instead of yelling at my 2 ½ year old, something a miserable mediocre mom would do.  I don’t want her to grow up thinking her mom always had a frown on her face, couldn’t relax, and said “no”…all the time.  We have all been there, but I don’t know if it makes us mediocre.  I mean, don’t we all need a moment to ourselves.  Don’t we need to discipline our children?  We don’t need to get on the floor and play dollhouse with our children at every single moment.  They need mediocre moments as well.  They need to use their imaginations and play and I need to stare off into space and take a moment to regroup.  I’m hoping it makes me a better mom when I am engaged, on the floor, and tickling and playing. 

Because, I think the truth is, at the end of the day, my kids are fed, dressed, and most of the time, smiling and laughing.  They are bathed daily and hugged and kissed in abundance.  They are loved and I know that makes me more than mediocre.  It makes me exceptional.  I hope that mom in music class hugs and kisses her little daughter enough too, because that would make that moment in music class….a simple, short-lived, mediocre moment by an exceptional mom.

"Keeping up with the Joneses"

Welcome to Bergen County, New Jersey.  Where status equals how many kids you have birthed and if that mom can stay at home.  “Look at me,” she says.  “I have 4 children, a big house, and the financial stability to clothe them all, buy luxurious things, and hit the gym.”  Well good for you.  Congrats. 

I see other mom’s at my gym, who have the flawless “gym” attire.  You know, the gym look.  They drop their adorable children off in the daycare, and spend hours perfecting their figures.  As I look down at my paint-stained tank top and ill-fitted sweatpants, I can’t help but think about this syndrome we all know and fear, called “Keeping up with the Joneses”

Where was this idiom coined?  How did it come about?  I know that it is a comparison.  A benchmark for the accumulation of stuff.  The best stuff.  In the mom/woman world, that “stuff” comes in the form of designer handbags; Tory Burch shoes;  expensive jeans, silk scarves, fancy cars, etc.  The list can go on and on.  I can go on and on about it.  But, I really think it is that good old-fashioned inferiority complex.  Women have this innate feeling of inferiority.  It starts early on and flourishes through high school.  It takes a back seat in college and the early working years, because let’s face it, we were all too drunk to care  But, it emerges again in all of its glory, when you start a family and become a mom.  A focus shifts.  And here it is, welcome back!

You are not human if you don’t feel it. The pressure to keep up.  But, I don’t buy it.  I’ll admit that I have had moments of this fear.  This lack of something.  But it is fleeting.  For me, it is more of a want to be better for myself.  A better mom. A better woman.  A leader. I’d like to think that my primary focus is on conversation. Period.  I try not to make my focus, someone’s handbag or pair of shoes.  I can appreciate those things, of course, and complement them, but I do not want to get into “that”.  Wanting those things.  Those “things” aren’t important.  I want to get away from that.  And I want to focus on something far more important; relationships. Do I need new gym attire, yes.  But, I’ll get to that.  I’ll think about that, when my kids get older.  For now, I am happy to hit the gym in my old college t-shirt and my 4 year old yoga pants.  But, I will sit in these old faded yoga pants and pretend I’m the voice of Ariel with my toddler.  And I will teach my girls to be leaders, no matter what shoes they are walking in. I will also chat with my husband about his day, and will sit comfortably with my legs crossed in my chair at the table.  We will laugh about what are children did that day.  I will complain about what our children did that day.  I will rest on the couch for exactly 2 minutes before its time to get ready for my 4:45 am wakeup call by my 6 month old.  I will take off my yoga pants, put on my pajama pants and call it a day. Besides, I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Jones even talk to each other.  Or, do they just dress in their expensive sleeping attire and then roll to each side of the bed at night?  The silence echoing in their heads…