From Dolce To Diapers

Ok so I never wore Dolce, but you would be amazed at the way your wadrobe changes when you have a kid. I went from wearing cute clothes, always having my hair and nails done, and meticulous make-up to t-shirts, yoga pants, messy buns, and a naked face. Unless you've got Super Nanny at your beck and call, you don't have time for that crap anymore. I'm lucky if I'm not wearing my shirt inside out. I once walked around a mall for two hours before realizing my pants were on backwards. I remember the days when I would flip out if I had a miniscule stain on my white shirt. It went from that, to purposely wearing white so you couldn't see the spit up so bad. If it's been a rough week, my system for checking for clean clothes is giving them a cursory sniff to make sure they don't smell like yesterday's dinner and deodorant. Being a parent means sometimes you just have to be gross. I remember going to lunch with a snobby former friend of mine right after I had my son. We went to a nice restaurant and I had tried my hardest to keep myself from looking like I hadn't just spent the last hour sleeping while standing up while my son took a nap. I even did my make-up, which is to say, I half-assed ran some mascara over my eyelashes and didn't even give it time to dry before I blinked. I was still wearing maternity jeans because my c-section the week before prohibited me from wearing normal pants and my black shirt had the ghost of baby vomit on it (I hadn't learned the white shirt trick yet). My friend was appalled upon first seeing me, but I told her to crank it out of her blow hole, I wasn't changing. We sit down to eat, so naturally my newborn wanted to as well. I got out my nifty little formula case and began preparing the bottle when the waitress knocked the container over, spilling the contents all over the table. It looked like a cocaine buffet in Cuba. I brought enough for two bottles and only about half of one remained in the little tub. So I scraped a little from the table, and was instantly reminded of a scene from some movie where some coked up whore was scouring the bathroom floor for some residue. Meanwhile, my son is screaming, or more accurately BAHHHH'ing like a baby billy goat, and my friend is looking at me like I've lost my mind. Then she asks me in her best impression of Ivanka Trump, "Are you really doing that, can't he just wait to eat until we get back home?" To which I replied, "Listen, Bess, the Chic-Fil-A calander shoot isn't going to be casting for any bovine talent anytime soon, so why don't you skip the meal as I'm sure your waistline won't mind, and take us home?" Well, needless to say, we aren't friends anymore. That happened alot over the course of the last two years. My single, childless friends just didn't understand how I could so easily give up Jack, Johnny, and Jim when they've been so good to me, to trade up for Pooh, Pampers, and Playskool. And they will never understand until they have a little bundle of joy of their own. It's a whole new world being a parent. I go to McDonald's for the play place now, and get two hours of sleep a night with enough bags under my eyes to stock pile a jumbo jet because of my kid and not a night of partying. I think I've worn heels a total of five times since I gave birth, and believe me, I didn't want to. I was concerned for myself at first, especially when I saw some new moms that still looked like they had just waltzed off the pages of a Hooters calendar, and their hair was perfectly coiffed and make up to the nines. But once I realized they either had a nanny, xanex, and/or a trip to the plastic surgeon, I didn't feel so bad about myself. It's gotten better the older my son has got. I have more than 30 seconds to get ready, but not much more. And not to sound cocky, but I can have a cute up-do, a nice outfit, and basic make-up in five minutes or less. Dominos don't have shit on me. I commend other parents, we all share the common enemy: sleeplessness. And I've come to realize I almost pity the ones that try to keep up with their kidless counterparts. All that time that you spend making yourself supermodel ready is time you could have spent with your child. I wouldn't trade this time with my son for a truck full of Coach bags. And nothing is better than having an excuse to wear yoga pants 24/7 ;)