I'm not one of those.

You know the type. 

They have trendy shoes. 

No handprints on their pant legs. 

Their kids' clothes are folded in their drawers.

They have great hair.

Lipstick.

Hand sanitizer in thier purse.

I'm not one of those. 

Last night Scarlette woke up in the night with a snorty nose.  I dug through all the drawers in our room and the bathroom in search of the bulb syringe to no avail.  It wasn't impossible for her to nurse, but it was noisy.  I felt bad.  Every few minutes she had to stop and cough to keep from choking on the obstruction in her sweet little newborn nasal passage.  I thought about running out to the truck at three in the morning to see if it was in the diaper bag. 

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Remember that part on "When a Man Loves a Woman" when Meg Ryan attempts to kick the booze on her own and carries the last bottle out to the trash bins only she chugs it before valiantly disposing of the bottle? When she goes back to the house she realizes she locked herself out and had to ring the doorbell to wake her already suspect husband to let her in.

I'm no drunk, but my husband already suspects that I am on the brink of insanity.  (I may be; it's hard to diagnose yourself.)  I can't risk an episode like that.  He might have me committed.  The other night I decided to get up and sit on the couch to nurse.  After I got out of bed, I stood in the middle of the bedroom for a few minutes trying to remember where I'd left my book.  Dale woke up and saw me standing there at two a.m.  You can imagine his confusion when he asked me what I was doing and I said, "Looking for that book."  It makes sense when you hear the whole story, but... I had to laugh.

Scarlette went back to sleep.
I kept thinking about that bulb syringe. 

I swore I'd never be one of those moms that lives in sweatpants.  This year Dale surprised me with a pair of sweatpants as a homecoming gift after the baby was born.  Since we're being honest here you should know that I have them in a rotation with another pair that I wear when they need to be washed.  It's humiliating to put on maternity clothes six weeks later with little hope of getting out of them, I guess.  Sweats are comfy and warm and don't have a belly pouch.  

I wore tennis shoes on our last date.  

When did comfort trump dignity?  I tell myself that my sister wears tennis shoes and still maintains her style, but I don't have her hair.  Or cute shirts with swans on them.  Or jeans without a belly pouch.  Or cute tennis shoes.  

At least we have dates. 

We sit with a seat between us so that there is room to spread out because it's more comfortable...

but we have dates.
Dates in tennis shoes. 

There are worse things
than not knowing where stuff is
and having a makeup budget of twelve dollars
a year.

lvb