Being a mom six months in, I’ve learned a few things: like how to change an exceptionally loaded diaper without getting anything stained (or any on me) or how to breastfeed in public (although I still don’t have the guts to just whip it out like in those Luvs commercials). I’ve deciphered my baby’s cries and even jumped in and miraculously saved an entire bus load of people from an infant’s meltdown with the touch of a finger on my iPhone. I got this!
I’ve read and I’ve blogged and I’ve taken notes with some of the best. But nowhere did anyone at any time warn me of one of the more embarrassing factors of new motherhood: the excessive sweating.
My sister and I, having popped out our little cry babies within weeks of each other this past winter, did our best to keep one another occupied by entertaining and annoying Starbucks patrons or the requisite malls (even the ones completely out of our way) with our motley crew. The packing, the loading in, the unloading, the changing, feeding and soothing; we did it all with pride. Hell, we were new moms! Nothing could get us down.
Except for my sweaty ass.
God I hate going out. I still don’t know if it’s hormones or just the exertion necessary to gather a newborn’s entourage (my own purse doesn’t have that much shit in it!), then get her out of the house and push her around in a 50-pound stroller that causes me to break out into full on wet-sauna-worthy drips, but it’s nasty. I’d love to be able to not look like I haven’t showered in over a week thanks to my over-active sweat glands while I attempt to find a comfortable and cute summer dress. I could totally do without the stringy hair or the mascara stains under my eyes, the dewy glow and the jeans sticking to my ass as soon I leave the house even though I’m freshly showered, not to mention my new exceptionally sweat-prone three-pencil boobs.
You know about pencil-boobs, right? When I was a young teenager — a loooooong time ago — before we knew about cup sizes, we used to compare our boobs by how many pencils we could shove under them. I used to be a zero… up until this winter. Now I’m a three. WTF.
For a short minute I was all happy about the fact that, hey, winter is over! No more layers to trap that ridiculous heat! Your skin can breeeaaathe! Yeah. Sure. Until the weather kicks up again and now sweat is a permanent fixture in my wardrobe. There’s nothing quite like cuddling up to your little heater at 30C+ weather (or 90F+, if you rather) and trying to breastfeed her. Sometimes I wonder if she’s actually getting milk and not just salty water.
That tube of lip gloss I used to carry in each purse has been replaced with a stick of deodorant. I actually have become ghetto enough to carry a do-rag with me (or should I try being classy and call it a kerchief?) to wipe my face and pits, and the Chinese hand-held fan is a fixture in my purse. Yes, I’ve become THAT Mom.
This is a reader submission.