Earlier tonight, my Husband came to me and hugged me from behind, and all I could think about was the pot of Macaroni and Cheese to my right, congealing.
Right now, as I’m typing, my hair is pulled back into a rubber band, I’m wearing a quarter sleeved green shirt two sizes too big, and a pair of flannel pajama pants several years old. I feel about as unsexy as a Middle Eastern goat, standing on some crappy plain while a randy herder gazes at me with longing.
Welcome to Motherhood.
I'm fortunate enough to stay home with my baby. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I didn't want to work, but late in my second trimester, I knew I didn't want to return to work, without a doubt.
I and my Husband had lived with his parents for several years, to save up for a house, before Colin came along. When Colin made his presence known, we had saved several thousands of dollars to purchase a house, money that was diverted in preparation of our first born child. We were shrewd enough to find a newly constructed community of townhomes in our city, one with all appliances included and no down payment necessary. It took quite a bit of convincing my Husband to purchase one of the yet to be built homes, but I did it, and we moved in, a fat savings account to boot.
Because we were careful with our savings, we were able to live on them, (in addition to my Husband's income, while I worked two weeks prior to my due date) until a month ago. This required a bit of sacrifice on our part, as our second vehicle broke down five months into my pregnancy, and we opted not to finance a second vehicle.
Not having a second vehicle has been...detriment to my social life since my child was born. My Husband takes the car to work; I stay home with the baby.
My Mom and Niece stayed with me and my Husband for six weeks, and it damn near killed my Mother. My Mother, with a bum knee and a six-year old, tried to leave the house nearly every day, while I was content to keep my pregnant butt at home, nursing high blood pressure and trying to sleep all I could before the baby came.
Not having a second vehicle didn't really bother me, until after my Stepmom and Dad came to visit two weeks after my Mother left. I was suddenly without anyone to entertain and feeling quite lonely and isolated.
I imagine that it is difficult for some Mothers, who had a full time job prior, to stay at home all day. I was pretty happy for awhile, relishing in my new role and fulfilling my prior role as Wife and Housekeeper, but after awhile, that began to pale. I'd look out of the window from our second story, watching the cars whizz by on the highway, and be envious that the contents of those cars could just come and go as they pleased.
Once, I went to a doctor's appointment, leaving my Son with my Husband, and as I was driving to my appointment, I felt a sense of contentment, slightly euphoric, as I drove. I felt as if I were going to work, unencumbered, without worry that my Son would start shrieking from the backseat, (I got one that does not like their car seat, go figure) and have to pull over to soothe before I got into an accident, went mad or he thought I abandoned him. No small wonder I felt the way I did.
Aside from brief excursions from the house by car, I didn't venture out all that often. As time flowed, I found the need to wear make-up, blow dry my hair, and put on anything that snapped, zipped or bound my body into some sort of socially acceptable shape like silly putty, ridiculous. For some time, I found this immensely pleasing, for it's rebellious nature and it's novelty. As time wore on, so did the feelings and I just came to begrudgingly accept the fact that I no longer needed to put on any makeup or "frippery".
My campaign to make all pants made without zippers or buttons intensified. For some reason, losing weight while breastfeeding eluded me, as I stuffed my face and struggled to find a balance that would allow me to lose the weight. While this is sounding like I just don't care, (and maybe to a degree I do not) there is still a flame alive, somewhere deep inside, that just plain longs to masterfully apply makeup, tweak my hair to a glossy luster and zip myself into an outfit that I can feel confident and proud to wear.
Knee grazing Yoga pants, easy to pull up shirts and flats have been main staples, not to forget bras that come apart at the straps to come down and allow my breasts to be free. One would think that this alone would be novel and "sexy" to my Husband, but alas, both of us were weirded out by the fact that my breasts had stopped being a "pleasure cruise" and had, indeed, become a “milking farm”, (More the pity, because previously, they had been a source of shared joy between me and my Husband).
What had become of me? At one point, I colored my hair, long forgotten roots showing, brassy ends flipping out, outrageously.
Is there a fault? If so, whose might it be? Could it be mine, flabby belly, leaky boobs, mussy hair, unflattering clothing, unwilling to be comfortable with who I had become? Maybe. Maybe, just so. However, to all the Mom's who may be reading this, that mabye is HUGE.
One cannot force the will of another, can we?
Hence, the congealing Mac n' cheese grabbing my attention. It needed me, I needed it. My Yoga pants are my best friend, I hate my double chin, i'm guardedly thrilled with my naked face, and my hair is having trouble enough hanging on without me torturing it into submission with a large round brush and hairdryer.
Maybe I'm not as lucky as Heidi Klum when it comes to pregnancy and Motherhood, but I’m working with what I have, and that's enough for now.
While my plum colored, patent leather, pointy toed stiletto pumps from Nine West may gather a fine dust in my closet, I haven't forgotten about them. I haven't forgotten about the vintage inspired dress to match, nor have I forgotten just how sexy I felt in both.
Nor I have I forgotten a promise to return to them one day, for myself.
3 days ago