I’m a stay-at-home mom with two small kids. I work from home and live in the Midwest. Occasionally – very occasionally – I get the urge to dress up. It always goes something like this: I put on my nicest skinny jeans, I pick out a shirt that isn’t stretchy and cotton, I attempt to accessorize with whichever earrings haven’t been widowed by my toddler, I slap some make-up on my normally bare face, and then I do a quick and dirty Pinterest search for hairstyles I usually screw up 37 times before I end up sweaty and tangled; ultimately deciding the skinny jeans and makeup are enough of an effort for a Wednesday morning, thank you very much.
Once I’m dressed, I sit down to feed my 3-month-old. As I’m sitting, my jeans slip down and give me plumber crack. One arm starts falling asleep beneath the weight of my infant’s adorable boulder-head, so I try to move it and am reminded that polyester has no give whatsoever. I tug at the fabric, which shakes the nipple loose from my baby’s mouth, and he hollers in protest. I shove it back in and resign myself to not feeling my arm for the next 20 minutes or so.
Once he’s finished, I carry him with me to the kitchen to grab my morning coffee. As I search for a clean cup, my son yanks at my earrings and starts gumming the buttons on my nice shirt. My arm dozes off again and my asscrack comes back for an encore. I notice the hair on my neck – usually in a ponytail – is starting to stick to me because I’m sweating from the effort of wearing normal human clothes. I finally find a cup and fill it with fresh, steaming coffee, and right as I sit down, SPLAT. My son spits-up down my chest and all over the front of my shirt. It drips down into my good bra and pools beneath my boobs.
Gag. We’re done here.
I change back into my uniform: sports bra, plain cotton t-shirt, a pair of pants with no buttons or zippers, hair in a bun. I made it exactly two hours as a semi-fashionable mom.