My three year old stripped down to his undies at the bank the other day, then paraded around in hysterical laughter when I tried to catch him. Later, when the teacher offered me Gingerale during a class field trip, my six year old proudly announced that I only take my Gingerale with Vodka.
This is a story about why I am no longer embarrassed about anything.
We all spend a decent amount of time making sure our car-ride-nose-picking goes unnoticed, go depths to look good in the morning, and be ever so discreet about our less than pleasant bodily functions. But having kids completely destroys our ability to evade some form of normal human disgusting. The second we walk into that delivery room and have six nurses prodding into our vaginas ( with all relatives in close watch), all humility is lost.
Being pregnant means you’ll probably accidentally pee on something at least once, and having a baby means there will be puke on everything you own. With three kids in very close sequence, I got over it really quick. Let me tell you, the feeling of not giving a damn is quite nice.
I no longer feel judged when my Sunday mornings are occupied by Bloody Marys instead of Congregational small talk. I work hard and I deserve it. Only on good days do I wear makeup and pants. The only person I’m trying to impress is myself, and that takes much more than eye liner. My kids are often erratic and inappropriate in public, but the world is too serious when all P’s &Q’s are minded. I sleep in too much, my house is messy, and my kids are messy. Birthday cakes are store bought, I’ve skipped soccer practice for no good reason, and I’m a pretty good mom in spite of it. I just don’t have time for perfection.
At the end of the day kids will be kids, moms will be flawed, and the world will go on.