Before I had kids, I was at lunch with a bunch of girls from work, and at the next table were two moms that I just could not understand. They came in dressed in sweatpants and stained t-shirts. They covered the highchairs in plastic stick-on place mats (at least they cared a little about cleanliness although I would be more concerned with the bio hazards on their clothes than the germs on the chairs), and ordered themselves margaritas the size of Texas. Then they proceeded to frown and volley their haggard child-induced depression across the table to one another while shoveling chips and salsa into their mouths at lightening speed. My group and I watched the women and laughed (behind their backs of course. We are nothing if not polite in our rudeness and judgements). Two of us freshly married and expecting kids sometime the future, and we knew that we would never be "that kind of mom." But, I realized today that I am just one jumbo margarita away from those two women. (Damn... why doesn't that place deliver?)
Let me take you on a tour of the ghettosville that is my current world. First, let's just say that I am not looking pretty. Ok, so I am still in my jamas, so that doesn't count, but yesterday I wore jeans and a t-shirt and spent the whole day pining for sweats. I don't actually wear the sweats yet, but I sit back and wish that I could. Really... I thought about it a lot. How comfy I would be. How durable I would be. Those tiny little thoughts creeped into my mind. They called to me. "Lynn.... wear me. Put me on. You're a stay home mom.... I am your uniform." I didn't do it, but you know I will give in some day. Maybe today. And, for the record... I am not the only one on the decline. Mark yesterday welcomed James into our house in a completely shredded Hawaiian shirt. I watched him hold Jack while talking to Dr. James and his nipple was showing. I divert my eyes and see his hairy shoulder and lily-white belly playing peek-a-boo too. At least my shirt is intact... albeit wrinkled and spattered with Diet Coke and Jack's breakfast.
Now, let me tell you about my house. First...background info. I bought a house before I had kids. I bought a house before I had a Mark. It was mine. It was cute. I had cute furniture, and decor. Pictures on walls, paint colors that were great, knickknacks... and not kitty statuettes, but real adult stuff that looked great. My house was complimented every time someone came over. It was contemporary, stylish, fun. Now if someone can even utter a compliment with a straight face, rest assured... its fake.
Picture my current epitome of style... in my family room, we have wood floors, but the trim keeps coming lose. So, we have one straightaway with hardened glue as the trim. Oh yes, and its been like that for months. Enter my kitchen where a light bulb has been out for months, and my dog peed on my front entryway rug this morning. Two pictures from the hall are broken, so they now live in the garage (and have for years) and don't get me started on the teeny tiny ants that are devouring my kitchen counters as we speak. My walls are scratched, chipped, nicked, banged, gouged and generally ripped up and I just walk past it, ignoring the water marks on the ceiling and the nail pops that probably spell out "money pit" in Braille above my head. And my bedroom... my sanctuary... my headboard is hanging crooked, the wallpaper doesn't match anything (because it was God awful when we bought the house and what I determined would be number one on my priority list has never been changed) and our treadmill hasn't worked since the day it was carried up those freaking stairs (which have a two story ceiling with more cobwebs than a deserted ghost town. And while you run screaming from my mad house, be careful not to get tangled in our screen door which is only hanging on by a thread and functions way better as a dog flap than an actual door. Jealous, yes?