In fact, my favorite wardrobe “trick” I happened to learn when I was pregnant and unshamefuly still sport today. You know what I’m talking about… the rubber band trick. Yeah, I’m super proud that I can fit back into my jeans, but the truth is, they just don’t look the same with the leftover love handles bulging out the sides. AND If I get a bigger size, I’ve got and air butt… so I turned back to the trusty rubber band to keep the fit and relieve the fat… wait… “motherly stores” HAHAHA! (Side note: that’s what one of my pregnancy books called the fat you gain from being prego. It made me feel better at the time, now I just think it’s hilarious.)

So back to my rubber bands… the other night when I was trying to convince my 15-year-old brother that getting gages in his ears are a bad idea because look what happened to my belly button after a piercing (and pregnancy, but hey, I was trying to sway him), I proceeded to pull up my shirt in the middle of the parking lot where we had just finished eating to scare the crap out of him only for the focus to be redirected to my rubber band!

Up until that point, I think I may have still had some cool points leftover from being his cool older sister with the car and cute fiends, but I’m sad to say, I think I’m now just a mom in a weird version of mom jeans to him. I swear I got the look he always gives our mom… the, “you don’t even know what you’re talking about” look. Yeah, well… at least my love handles are comfortable! Take that!

My beautiful, happy-go-lucky little girl is definitely in the “let’s test the boundaries” phase already. Her newest thing is hitting. Sitting here in my rational mind, I know that, to a 15-month-old, hitting is not a hateful or deviant act. But when I’m running on fumes and my nerves are frayed, it hurts to be hit, both physically and emotionally… and after about the 25^th “no hitting” plea from me being met with a giggle, I lost my cool. I yelled at my baby in a way I never I could. Not my proudest parenting moment.

Fortunately or unfortunately, my husband was home to witness it. Fortunate because he was able to take over and let me go cool off; unfortunate because now not only do I know I’m an unfit mom, but he does, too. Ok, so maybe unfit is taking it a bit too far, but I certainly felt that way for a few hours after the incident.

It doesn’t really take a genius to deduce that all I really needed was a little break (I just have to get it through my thick head that there’s absolutely no shame in that). So, the next day, my wonderful and sympathetic husband carted the little one over to Nana’s so mommy could have a few hours to herself – three solid hours to do anything I want, in fact. Bliss. What would you do with a few hours of “you time”?

Me? I cleaned out my closet!

It was so incredibly cathartic. Before becoming a mom, I was a total fashion victim. I had a passion for clothes. My closet was stuffed to the gills with cute and trendy duds… only problem being that they no longer fit right and were definitely NOT flattering. The comfortable go-to pieces I wear on a daily basis had no place to live so they were all in hap-hazard piles on the floor. Getting dressed in the morning (okay, afternoon) was becoming a complete stress-inducing nightmare. And so it was that I decided that my precious alone time was going to be very well spent in the closet.

It wasn’t easy at first to admit that I’m really not going to wear those cute little minis or sky-high heels again.  I had to suck it up and accept that even if I do ever lose those last few pounds, I am still not going to look good in a skin-tight glittery tube top and low-slung jeans.  Besides, am I really going to slip into those puppies to chase a toddler around? Yes, I’m sure my neighbors would highly appreciate me channeling my inner Janet Jackson on the playground!  The truth is, those clothes just aren’t me anymore. I’m a mom and now I often dress like one. Oh well. Time to get real.

Yeah, it’s sad to see so many clothes that remind of silly times with my girlfriends, trips to Vegas with my hubby B.C. (that’s Before Chloe, if you’re wondering), or just of who I was before I was “Chloe’s mom” but I’m happy with who I am now and I’m ready to embrace it. Hanging on to all that stuff somehow felt like it was holding me back.

Who knew? Cleaning out the closet: If I had realized that’s all it would take to restore peace and balance in my life, I would have done it long ago!

Oh, and bonus: I’m taking a major haul over to the consignment shop so I can hopefully I can score some dough while I’m at it (and maybe get me some new mom jeans? Ok, let’s not take it too far here)!

In a book that purports to be THE resource for all things pregnancy and childbirth related, where is the chapter that explains that this glorious, life-changing experience will turn you into a pizza-faced, grizzly looking sideshow freak??? Oh sure, I was well-informed about the chances of acquiring unsightly stretch marks, less perky knockers, a slightly looser tummy; I was even somewhat prepared for impending hair loss. I had no misconceptions about bounding out of the hospital bed into my pre-pregnancy jeans. I was reminded repeatedly about the “nine months on, nine months off” rule.

I was not, however, in any way prepared for the day I would be reading Pat the Bunny and my cheerful chirp of the phrase “Judy can feel daddy’s scratchy face” would be met with a tiny  hand tenderly brushing MY cheek. Ok, surely she doesn’t think mommy also has a scratchy face, does she? I can do a pretty good job of convincing myself that no one else is noticing my slow transition into a werewolf – but nothing like the innocence of a child to bring about a swift  reality check! It can’t truly be that bad, can it? Ugh.

I am on constant surveillance for new sprouts. I know exactly where their favorite places to hang out are and I watch them closely. My weapons are always handy and I’m not afraid to use them. I’ve strategically placed tweezers everywhere, including the car – because there’s nothing better than natural sunlight to really bring the bearded lady into focus!  Just when I think I have the situation under control, out of nowhere a giant black sprig emerges in what seems like a split second… and I’m talking about bristles so thick and strong, it can take some serious muscle to uproot them. What the heck? Why?

So not only do we have to spend nine months stretching our body into ridiculousness, only to never again know it as the beautiful thing it once was (which, by the way, was so under-appreciated pre-morph, it’s just shameful)… but facial hair? Really? That’s just plain unfair. Yes, it truly is a miracle and a blessing to create a new life and no, I didn’t expect to come through the process completely unchanged.  But maybe a little heads-up on the fact that I’d soon be grooming my pelt would’ve been nice, you know?

Come on, any other Sasquatch mommies feel like outing themselves? Got some tips for how you keep the beast at bay?

When I step outside of my own little world I see the moms who look like they don’t have kids, but they do, and they’re at the grocery store buying dinner or jogging down the road with curls. First I wonder how they do it… Then I start to feel like a failure. I mean, are these super moms? Half the time I think I’m not good at anything because I’m spread so thin, let alone looking good doing it.

As I lay in bed and think, as I often do because it’s my quiet time, I can really only come up with one good reason these wonder women exist. They must have more time. How do they do it? Do they know something I don’t?

Well, I obviously don’t have the secret recipe, but I want it. I want pedicured feet and blown out hair and a waxing! I want to go to the mall and feel at peace in the dressing room, even with a crying kid on my leg. But you know what? It ain’t gonna happen. Even if I could add hours to the day, I can’t imagine spending them any differently than I already am because I feel like my priorities are right for me.

I don’t want to miss the fun my husband and son are having in the living room as I get ready for the day so I throw on my drugstore makeup and hat and spend that time with them. Nap time is either mommy and daddy time or work time and of course the other time is, well, the balancing act.  Don’t get me wrong, I could NOT work at home without help, but there’s a reason I’m a work at home mom… so I can have my cake and eat it too. My cake may not look as pretty as others, but it tastes damn good to me!