We all had a lovely weekend, cramming in as much family time without work and daycare as we possibly could. More on that fun down the page. First, I want to talk about the epidemic to which I bore personal witness on Friday at a high school basketball game: mom jeans. Or mom fashion, really. I know I have stated many times my commitment to withholding judgement about other mothers, and I still mean that for the most part. During my maternity leave, I was often apt to leave the house with one sock, half a ponytail and a breastmilk-stained T-shirt I had worn for five days straight, and I appreciate all the women who looked at me, looked at my baby carrier and smiled or reassured me I would one day rejoin the human race. I know it's hard to get dressed, especially with a kid, and I don't WANT to ridicule a large population of very nice ladies...but COME ON. Who can possible look in the mirror and say to herself: "Gee, these larger-than-life, long-waisted, up-to-my-sagging-boobs Lee Jeans look fantastic on me, especially when paired with a roll-down turtleneck and huge sweatshirt. Oh, and too match, I'll wear a scrunchie and fluff up my bangs." Who?! I'm not picking on just a few moms here either. There were literally a dozen. As I looked around the gym, I in fact saw very few moms in anything other than denim and sweatshirts, and I began to wonder if this is what having an adolescent can do to you.
Luckily, I was with my wonderful friend Laura. She and her husband have a kid who is a senior in high school and another in 7th grade, though you would never know it from looking at them and their cool hair, cool clothes, very cool shoes and overall coolness. They are cool, cool people who also happen to be parents--this part of their lives hasn't usurped their total identity. We go to shows with them all the time, go drinking, hang out at their house, embark on strange projects and fabulous adventures with them, you name it. In fact, once upon a time, out past midnight with them in some smoky bar seeing a great new local band, I'd often have to remind myself they were parents. Great parents, really, raising two cool boys who like art and dig music and have long hair and are open-minded (except when it comes to food), even in the mom-jean environment of their school and neighborhood. David and Laura were my parenting heroes long before I could ever picture myself as a parent, and now they are my number one parental resource. I'm convinced if they continue to steer me in the right direction, I can avoid the tragedy that is mom jeans and carve out the right niche for myself as a cool mom.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't want to be a cool mom in the pass-the-bong-and-turn-up-the-stereo way or even the I-don't-care-if-you-teenagers-drink-here-as-long-as-you-aren't-driving way. I see myself as more of the do-your-homework-on-the-way-to-the-show mom, a take-a-year-off-and-travel mom, or a hey-can-I-borrow-your-sweater mom. But I won't split hairs. I in no way see myself as a mom-jean mom, an I'm-cutting-my-hair-off-because-it's-just-easier mom, a mini-vans-just-make-so-much-sense mom. If I reach that point, someone please shoot me. Show me a picture of myself first, make me look long and hard at what I've become and then shoot me. I know I have eaten my words before (I'll never use a pacifier, breastfeeding will be so easy...), but if this is one of those cases, I don't want to carry on. Life will be meaningless. Bury me in my mom jeans and just let it be done.
But back to Laura, my cool, non-mom-jean-wearing friend. Not only does she provide a great model for my life as a parent, she provides a great environment and all the encouragement a girl could need. She piled us all in her car for Clementine's first road trip (and babysat in the hotel while Nate and I saw a great show), she is letting us invade their family camping trip this summer for a week and we may even do a trek down south for a three-day music festival in July. Not only that, but hers is always the house I go to when Clementine is having a car fit. It calms us all down to be there because Laura takes such good care of us and always assures me that I'm doing O.K. SHouldn't everyone have that presence in her life? It's what keeps me from getting sucked into that great mommy sorority or competition and drive to create the perfect little robot kid (you'd be surprised at how easy turning life and expectations over to that seems at times). So the essence of Laura: she parents her kids, parents my kid, guides me through parenting, has a great wardrobe, listens to cool music, bakes amazing cookies and never ever ever wears sweatshirts and mom jeans in public while her hair is in a ponytail. Is there a cooler mom in history? I can only aspire to kick her ass in that department down the road.
To summarize (I'm at work and have had this window open for 2 hours while I'm doing actual work, so I've totally lost my train of thought and suspect I might be repetitive and babbling): mom jeans are bad and I'd rather die than wear them or know moms who wear them. To that end, Laura, who doesn't wear mom jeans, took me shopping all day on Sunday because this whole breastfeeding thing burns quite a few calories and I have no pants that fit and I was starting to worry I was suffering from mom fashion. Or corporate fashion, which is just as bad. I think we're OK on that now, though lots of my new shirts show off my prominent cleavage tattoo, which doesn't bother me but always attracts the oddest, most uncomfortable glances from the very proper and intimidating Head of our school. What can I do? It's kind of here to stay.
The rest of the weekend was spent with my own sweet little Clementine. Nate went out on Saturday, and I had the best time at home playing with darling C. I did have a horrible realization that I am maybe not the best dancer in the world, but I'm pushing those thoughts and images (we were looking in the mirror while we danced because she LOVES to see her own face) away until I truly have to face them. Monday, Monday. I feel like I didn't have enough time with the girl, but we're sure making the most of what time we do have.
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