You know that show, What Not to Wear (final season is this summer!)? Stacy London and Clinton Kelly take an unfortunately dressed person (usually a woman) and give them a major wardrobe makeover and a mini life makeover. Many of the guests on the show are moms who have..."given up." They wear sweatpants and never wash their hair, and I remember watching the show a few years ago and thinking, I will never be like that when I have kids.
And now, here I am. Looking like the "before" on What Not to Wear. More like Mayim Bialik than I ever wanted to be even when she wore all those fabulous hats as Blossom many moons ago. My uniform is yoga pants (and I haven't done yoga in over a year, sooo...) and a dirty-ish t-shirt. I mean, it's sad. Stacy and Clinton would not approve. Of my clothes, or my hair. I used to have really great hair...and skin, too. And now everything is just limp and sallow.
What's the point of telling you all this? It's not because I'm vain or fishing for compliments (which I know, dear friends, would not be true because I've looked in the mirror lately and it's bad), none of that. It's not because I can't get rid of baby weight that I can't fit into nice clothes - I was never svelte to begin with and "nice clothes" to me have always been Banana Republic or Anthropologie instead of "regular clothes" from the Gap. I was never a clothes horse, but I always had style. I could be considered put-together, sexy, trendy, yet classic. I loved to look good, and now...I just don't.
The point is, someone recently asked me how motherhood has changed me. And at first I could think only of the amazing ways it has: it's made me more sensitive and patient. More responsible. More conscious of how I treat other people, from the guy in the bodega on the corner to my husband. I can say with all honesty, motherhood has made me a better citizen of the world.
But there's another side to it. The harsh, unfunny truth: I don't take care of myself anymore. And the entire time I'm not caring about myself, I sing the ballad of the mother as martyr, ohhh it's because these babies are just taking up so much of my time. I need to put them first, so where do I come in?
It is a hard balance, but I admit, I'm not even trying. Jack and Nellie always look fantastic (I'm convinced people must think I'm the nanny because there's no way Dirty Shirt is mother to those two beautiful babes), they eat incredibly healthy meals, get enough sleep and playtime and social interaction and educational enrichment. Me? For breakfast/lunch I wolfed down a cheddar scone and a chocolate chip cookie and my 3rd coffee of the day. I never go to bed early enough. I haven't read a book in...I can't remember how long. I go months without seeing close friends and doing the things I used to love to do. And I've stopped caring about how I look, not in that self-assured, "I look how I look and that's ok" kind of way...but in a, "I look pretty awful so please just don't look at me" kind of way.
I'm the stay-at-home-mom who's given up on herself, and, for me, it's been the most unexpected part of motherhood. How did this happen? And how do I even begin to change back? Going to bed early might help. Eating fruit when my kids eat fruit, little things like that. But I think, most importantly, I have to remind myself that even though Jack and Nellie are small now, they're growing more observant every day. And I want them to know the real me - the woman who had enough energy to start her own baking business in addition to her stressful full time job; the woman who loved to read and go to the movies and restaurants and walk around Soho on a Friday evening; the woman who enjoyed conversations with friends and strangers and was full of life; the woman who wore yoga pants to yoga; and the woman who loved to feel pretty in addition to all those things.
Maybe the cliched lesson to learn from all this is that if I feel better about myself, I'll be a better mother. Or maybe I won't, and I'll just feel better. Isn't that enough of a reason? Either way, it's time to start putting myself first.
Or at least first and a half.
*Photo courtesy of parents.com
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