Mommified

A few months ago, I read a great quote from Tina Fey*, one of my favorite writer/actresses, about how you know you are a mom. Here it is, reprinted from this source:

“There are so many things now that I do where I’ll be like, ‘Oh, now I’m a mom. Like when your kid hands you their boogers, and you take it. You’re like, ‘Okay, I’m a mom.’ Or when I find myself getting mad because I’m trying to put underpants on someone who is dancing.”

I certainly felt like I'd officially joined the "Okay, I'm a mom" club when, in May, EJ projectile vomited all over me in a restaurant.** In between the first and second rounds of spew (separated only by seconds, of course), I came to the realization that, yes, it was good that I was acting as a human shield, because I am the mom, that is what we do. Before she got sick, should I have been suspicious when she wanted to get on my lap, bury her head in my chest, and "cuddle" after her meal? Well, maybe. She's your typical squirrelly three-year old, and although she gives a great hug, a restaurant usually provides her with too much stimulation to want to hang out snuggling her parents. No, I wasn't quite up to snuff with my Mom instincts preceding the puke, but once it was flying, I gave it a full body block. Like I said...I'm a mom. That's what we do.

For what it is worth, now when we dine out, I am that mom asking her kid "are you feeling okay?" every time she sets her fork down. I know I'm annoying her, and I'm probably annoying patrons around us, too, but once bitten, twice shy. I may be a fully-initiated mom, but I'm not going to volunteer to wear vomit again soon if I can help it.

If appearance is everything, I had another "gosh, I'm really a mom" moment last night, a moment that nearly shocked me straight to Bloomingdale's at 1:30 in the morning. I had some trouble falling asleep, so I stayed up well past my husband. I didn't want to disturb him fumbling around for my pajamas, so I just slid into bed with my regular clothes on. Within seconds, I was having this dialogue in my head: "Did I put on my pajamas? I swear I didn't. These ARE my clothes, I'm sure of it. Wow, these are as comfortable as pajamas!"

ACK! I'm all for comfort---you won't see me in pointy-toed heels*** any time soon, I don't care what they say on, "What Not To Wear"---but that was ridiculous. I bolted out of bed, quietly scrambled around for jammies, and went to the bathroom to change. I have to draw the "comfortable mom clothes" line somewhere, for goodness sake. I cannot accept the fact that, even though I can dress them up with funky-cool jewelry and fancy accessories, I now walk around in modified pajamas.

The reality is, a lot of being a mom is about the outward stuff---the "mommification" experience. It's not nearly as dramatic (or terminal!) a process as mummification, but it will wrap you up, all the same. In my case, I have found that the layering of material around me---pajama material, mixed with vomit, apparently, not to mention the million assorted items EJ asks me to "hold for [her]" every day---has left me a gauzy shadow of what I used to look like. This may be particularly acute because I do not work in an office setting anymore, and rarely have occasion to dress in an outfit that won't easily allow me to get down on the floor to wipe up spills or play blocks. That said, even with the wrappings of motherhood completely covering me, I am preserved inside. That is the point of mummification, right? To leave the person intact and preserved for their journey to the next plane of existence? That seems about right for mommification, too---it may cover you up for a spell, but it also seems to preserve what is essential to you, so you can journey to the next adventure.

My goals for the summer are three-pronged: relax, organize, and beautify, in that order. My main focus has been on our condo, a home that is literally swimming in piles of clutter due to lack of focus on my part while finishing up graduate school. My mom and mother-in-law**** are coming tomorrow to help me start sorting things for a big rummage sale we hope to have in my hometown later this season. It feels great to have traction in this area of my plan, but until last night, I hadn't thought about taking the time to work that three-pronged attack on my own appearance. Sorting through old clothes to prep for the sale will help, but beyond that, looking for work again may provide a natural shift back to the 9-to-5 office garb I had become accustomed to during my pre-mommification days. I'm keeping some of the comfy clothes though---no one at the park cares if my pants have a drawstring waist, and besides, I need those giant, comfy pockets to house the sunscreen, sand toys, juice boxes, snacks (sometimes sticky and half-eaten), "cannot leave the house without" attachment objects of the moment, found treasures like leaves and rocks and general bramble....the list goes on and on.

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*Tina was also one of the writers, during her time at Saturday Night Live, of the "Mom Jeans" commercial. How apropos. I'm not quite there, but I'm retreating from mom-wear just in time, I think.

**We returned to the scene of EJ's vomiting episode rather sheepishly a few weeks later, suspecting they wouldn't be happy to see us. As it turns out, the whole episode helped the restaurant to get a good review on Yelp from Paul, the guy next to us whose jacket was caught up in some of the spray, despite my best efforts to keep all the puke to myself. We paid for his meal, and apparently became southside ambassadors, in the process!

***During my year abroad in Aix-en-Provence, I wore through a few pairs of shoes that I had brought from home. My parents let me splurge in the spring for some new pairs, and I chose a beautiful pair of cherry-brown Italian woven sandals (I still dream of those shoes) and an equally beautiful pair of honey-colored suede, pointy-toed heels. I felt so French in those heels, and they were quite comfortable in the store, but I wore them all of one time in real life. I walked across Aix one afternoon, to head to the Fac d'Economie's computer lab, where they (gasp!) had computers that (gasp!) could send messages to other computers back home (yes, this was my introduction to email back in spring 1994), and I proudly wore my heels for the first time. Fifteen minutes of cobblestone sidewalks later, the backs of my shoes were completely stained with blood---blood gushing from the lacerations at the backs of my ankles, where the cute shoes had done damage on my narrow heels as they clicked in and out of the footwear. I took the shoes off, only to see blood in the toes, as well---that was that warm feeling---with blisters to top it off. I typed my messages home shoeless, and when I went to put the shoes back on, I couldn't jam them onto my swollen, bloodied feet. I walked back barefoot---a terrifying prospect in a town where picking up after your dog is a mild suggestion---and despite many attempts, never got the blood off those shoes. I learned my lesson at twenty---these feet are not made for fashion. The sandals paid off, though---I had them resoled three times before having to let them go around age 27.

****My mom and mother-in-law get along well, and it is as awesome as you might imagine. I am a lucky gal. It should be a great day.