Am I a Fashionista? Try a disaster-ista. Look, everyone knows that staying home with kids can take a sorry toll on a woman’s personal appearance. The expansion of our hips alone is just cause for an entirely new wardrobe. Before I had kids, I prided myself on looking good. Sure, there were the days in college where jeans and baseball hats were the outfit du jour, and who doesn’t like lounging in sweats and a soft tee on the weekends? But for the most part, you wouldn’t catch me without my open-toe 4-inch heels, slingbacks, mules, stilettos or an array of fabulous boots. Curve-hugging pencil skirts, fitted tops and blazers, and gorgeous accessories. (If you’re going to work in NYC, you better look the part.) I liked to look good and, much like a girl without kids; I savored my Saturday mornings at the nail salon and getting my hair highlighted. I liked to look pretty. It made me feel pretty and feeling pretty, shallow as it is, made me feel good about myself.
I remember one morning on the way to work. I had just sat down on the subway and opened my magazine when I heard a voice next to me. “You’re married?” I looked up into a pair of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and a million dollar smile with dimples. He had an Armani suit and the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm, and he stood swaying with the train, grinning down at me. He was gorgeous, perfect, and oh-so-midtown Manhattan. A dime a dozen, I called them. (But sooo cute.) I smiled back and shrugged in mock apology. He gently picked up my hand and looked at my ring, scowling. “Well, he’s a lucky man. You’re beautiful”, he said, looking at me as he spoke. It was very sweet and romantic, like a moment out of a movie.
And then, in typical New York fashion, he slipped me a business card. “It if doesn’t work out, gimme a call sometime.”
Staying Home = Staying Frumpy?
There seems to be a theory amongst popular women’s magazines and websites that soon after the uterus shrinks, moms should be wearing their normal digs again. I once read an article in Glamour or something that talked about “looking fabulous with the new baby”, and then cruelly had a picture of Halle Berry with her newborn, looking ridiculously good.
This is pure crap.
Smaller midsection aside, there’s spit-up, vomit, poo, and sweet-potato drenched sneezes to deal with. And then there’s the matter of comfort. When I realized my days would consist of bending over all day and crawling around on my hands and knees (not in the good way, I assure you), I went from wearing blue jeans and button-up shirts to sweats and large tee shirts. Didn’t make much sense to rock my Calvins and earrings while scrubbing toilets and cleaning the litter box.
Carmela Soprano I Am Not
I’ve always marveled at the women who can spend their days running a household in nice clothing. This is prevalent in Hispanic and Italian cultures. When my husband and I visited his family in South America, I couldn’t believe how the stay-at-home moms dressed. Tight pants, lacy and silky tops, and (ready for this?) girdles. No kidding, those women squeezed their post-children waists into girdles to bring them back to pre-baby size. Full make-up, coiffed hair and manicured hands. I don’t think I ever saw a woman under 35 with hair shorter than her shoulders. It’s just not done down there.
And the Italians? Girl, forget it. I’m part Italian, and while I didn’t grow up in the culture (I was raised with my Scandinavian/German side), I know my grandmother and her sisters did the housework in dresses, skirts, curled hair and false lashes. Also, I lived in northern Jersey for close to 11 years. You know the saying “stereotypes are created for a reason?” Well, in this case, it’s true. Carmela Soprano was typecast for a reason: SHE’S REAL. I remember going to Shop Rite to do my food shopping and seeing the other moms: Tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and jewelry galore. They’d argue with the butchers, snapping their white-tipped nails at their kids.
And me? My grandmother would roll in her grave. Flip-flops just made more sense to me. So did my Mets tee. I was clean, dammit, but I didn’t see the point in dressing up to pick out produce and toilet paper. Anyway, I’m partially convinced that mothers go crazy and wind up committing infanticide because they are sucking in all day while trying to scrub the floor and chasing after toddlers in heels. Torture can make women do some very bad things. I do like to dress up and look good on dates and outings with my girlfriends, but my outfit is usually simple: Jeans and a cute top. I jazz everything up with heels and big earrings and hot lipstick, but the linen, silk and tight skirts are a thing of the past.
This morning I realized all of my clothes were waiting to be washed, and the only thing I had to wear was the tent of a nursing gown from last year. I understand that while some cultures favor over sized cotton togas, I may need to close the blinds until I had something more suitable to wear. It looked THAT ridiculous. My son stopped me in the hallway as I went to start a load of wash.
“Whoa, mommy!” He exclaimed, looking at me in disbelief. “That dress you got is so beautiful!” He fingered the hem, smiling shyly.
And that, my girlfriends, makes it all worth it.
