Sore Eyes

There is a certain "mom look" that I swore I would never have. You know, the a-little-too-much-ruffle, a-little-too-much-seasonal-appliqued-vest, a-little-too-much-floral, all in the wrong places, topped off with the overgrown ponytail look. I used to wonder where these moms would purchase such things, maybe in a Mom Fashion catalog. I didn't know. I remember I would shake my little internal head with pity (ok, maybe a snobbish, condescending type of pity) and say, "how could they leave the house looking like that?'' I think I've been enlightened.

Since becoming a mom I haven't come across any Mom Fashion catalogs, but I have come across a lot of sleepless nights, for starters. Sleep depravity does something to a person. I can't figure out how to describe it. Perhaps it's a thinkless mode, called "I don't care." Usually, the thinkless mode outlasts the outing, as it were, to the grocery store, the gas station, the grocery store again. I remember not being shocked if I heard the expression, "a sight for sore eyes" in reference to me. These days I'm afraid I can make any eyes sore. I just wish the thinkless, "I don't care" mode would always outlast the outing, without exceptions. It doesn't.

A recent day ago, I pulled into a grocery parking lot and in the corner of my eye I noticed a fellow first-time-mom, well dressed and size minus 3, who I sort of knew. Her baby is a couple of months younger than mine. She was walking to the store that I was about to enter. I didn't let my glance rest on her more than a split second for fear that she, too, would see me. I chose the better, non-discriminating option and turned my head and talked to my baby who was unhappily strapped in her car seat. (Between these few lines my baby has already woken up twice! I've got my little prayers crossed that that will be it for at least five hours or so.) I didn't feel like bumping into her and doing the whole, we-have-to-small-talk-since-we-know-each-other's-names-even-though-we-both-think-this-is-stupid, thing, especially when I didn't need to look in the review mirror to remind myself of what I looked like when I left the house.

My shoulders slouched. I wanted them to slouch all the way down to my goldfish/graham cracker infested car floor. Earlier that day I clearly remembered noticing dandruff speckled throughout my year-old haircut. What was that all about? I could feel the crotch of my jeans halfway down my ripply thighs. My hand-me-down shirt didn't fit, but on the bright side, the sleeves had bleach stains. In that split second of seeing that person I was jolted into reality. I don't always like reality. So I promptly did what any reasonable person would do. I quickly exited the parking lot and off I went to another grocery store.

It wasn't a fun ride. My baby was hungry and tired (never a good combination). But I couldn't really blame her, when that combination is going on with me I always want to act like a 17-month-old: scream. That is precisely what she was doing. I acted quickly and broke off pieces of a candy bar that my boss had just given me and eagerly gave it to her as I drove in a panic. (That was her first official candy bar, another one of those, "I would never do that" ideals. Mind you, I had some of that candy bar, too.)

There is something about anonymity. It can be very soothing. Not to be known, not to be spoken a whole lot to. Not to be reminded of all that I hoped to be but wasn't. That's what I wanted at that moment. I don't like that I want that sometimes. The elusive goal of the perfect mom can often plague me. The problem with that goal is the "perfect" part. It doesn't exist. I think all of us, first-time moms, second and fifth-time moms and floral-applique-ruffly-moms alike just need to give ourselves a pat on the back that one more day our baby (or babies) was fed, hugged and kissed an awful lot. That is beautiful. Beautiful enough for any sore eyes.

(Update on the baby: since last mentioned, she has woken up four additional times. Rocked twice, snuggled cheek-to-cheek in mama and papa's bed once and currently, in mama's arm. The other arm is busy typing.)