There was a point in time where I felt sexy. I could (and often did) spend hours applying make-up in new and interesting ways. The mornings were a time for reading, coffee, open closet doors, trying on shoes, but were spent, most often, sleeping. I went to college, had a job, friends who would invite me to join them for dinner after the sun went down. There is a part of me that remembers being indignant when a restaurant in New Hampshire was already closed at 10 pm.
By the time I crawl into bed at night, I'm not thinking about lingerie or candles. More than once I have picked Cheerios out of my hair before turning out the light. I dread staying up too late because I never know what the night will bring. The night I get in bed at 12:30 am is the night D has a bloody nose at 2:00 am or C comes down with a cold or O cuts a tooth. I usually flip through tomorrow's agenda before turning out the light, checking if I need to be somewhere before 10 am or if an appointment will interfere with the babies' nap time. I try to find out from W if he will get home when I normally expect him or if he will be late. I try to remember if I did indeed put the meat in the fridge to defrost and, if I forgot, what I will make instead (getting out of bed isn't an option). Often times the following day closely resembles the previous day, the same schedule, the same frustrations, and, regrettably enough, the same meal options.
I do miss someone asking me to proof-read an article for them or for my opinion on a book. I miss long, heated debates over punctuation. I will always wish I studied abroad before I got married. But I will never regret the choices that have brought me to where I am. At the core, I am still the person I've always been. There are parts of my personality that are missed on my young children (i.e. a heavy sense of irony). Constantly introducing myself and attempting to make friends makes me feel like the new girl, a position I'm frequently in because of my husband's career. The choices I've made and the people immediately surrounding me have challenged me, through no fault of their own, to temporarily shelf or draw out various aspects of my personality. Some of these areas needed work (patience) and some I would have liked to hold onto awhile longer (the ability to stay awake until midnight).
Today I may be wearing ballet flats to the park. This is a season in my life where my focus is on the happenings in my home, my husband's schedule, and the needs of my children. But tomorrow... who knows? The lilac BCBG pumps may find their way back on my feet.
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| The babies want Momma's lap everytime I sit down. North Carolina January 2012 |
I had a conversation with a friend the other day about being a stay-at-home mom. Having worked up until she had her twins, she said that what she misses the most is feeling witty. She said she misses the banter at her work place. It really stuck with me. We discussed how you make a joke with your spouse and it often falls on deaf ears. You are home after a long day and want to relax, a baby is crying, a basketball game is on, someone is refusing to eat dinner, or you just discovered that you are, in fact, coated in spit up. With so much going on, you start dealing with the task at hand, ignoring or half-processing things that fall in the "it can wait" category.
Today being Valentine's Day, I attempted to step up my appearance. I applied eye liner, curled my hair, squeezed into pencil jeans, wore a lower-cut shirt. As a result, O dedicated his time pulling my shirt open the entire time he was in the sling. My three-year old complimented my efforts by running his chocolatey hands along my hair line, "I like your hair, Momma." By the time W arrived home, my hips were protesting the snug pants. My hair was a disheveled mess and I had snot and baby dinner dried on my shoulder. The sexy feeling was not there. I flirted while I iced the cake only to have him say, "What?" over the roar of tired 10-month olds. Flirting doesn't really work when you are 1.) repeating yourself and 2.) yelling your pick-up lines over screaming infants.
By the time I crawl into bed at night, I'm not thinking about lingerie or candles. More than once I have picked Cheerios out of my hair before turning out the light. I dread staying up too late because I never know what the night will bring. The night I get in bed at 12:30 am is the night D has a bloody nose at 2:00 am or C comes down with a cold or O cuts a tooth. I usually flip through tomorrow's agenda before turning out the light, checking if I need to be somewhere before 10 am or if an appointment will interfere with the babies' nap time. I try to find out from W if he will get home when I normally expect him or if he will be late. I try to remember if I did indeed put the meat in the fridge to defrost and, if I forgot, what I will make instead (getting out of bed isn't an option). Often times the following day closely resembles the previous day, the same schedule, the same frustrations, and, regrettably enough, the same meal options.
While unpacking during this recent move, I carefully put away all my high heels. I fondly remembered buying each pair, the shoes I wore the night W proposed, my favorite "daily heels" (wait, heels when the sun is out?), the heels I wore with the dress W liked so much. One pair I debating moving to my "regular rotation shoes," deciding against it when I considered the baby sling. I still own these shoes; they still fit. I have them at the top of my closet right now where they wait until I may possibly take them down. There are nights, few and far between, when I wear a dry clean only dress (most recently, my anniversary). Right now I wear kitten heels and ballet flats, a kind way of saying comfortable shoes. I've discovered a fondness for the classic look of Keds and rolled jeans (go ahead, say it. The "Mom Look." I know).
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| You can find me at Barnes and Noble... for storytime. North Carolina January 2012 |
Today I may be wearing ballet flats to the park. This is a season in my life where my focus is on the happenings in my home, my husband's schedule, and the needs of my children. But tomorrow... who knows? The lilac BCBG pumps may find their way back on my feet.
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
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