Mama's Day

I distinctly recall a moment in time back in the "B.C." (before children) era of my life. It was right after I was done a long day's work. Grocery shopping was in order, and since it was conveniently on the route home, that's where I found myself. I was round with child. Blissfully unaware of the web of mass chaos that this first child would bring...nor the continuing four children behind her. Life. Was. Good. And simple. As I rounded the corner with my large self my eyes spotted her. You know. Her. The Mom. The one that we've all seen. Tired, haggard. Hair pulled tight in a pony-tail. Freshly washed just two days prior, no doubt. Clothes disheveled. Stained from the wear of little ones not-so-carefully climbing about her. Children piled high in her cart...almost as high as her groceries. Baby crying. Toddlers screaming. Sippy cups flying to the floor. I stopped and gawked for a while. She looked so....old. And tired. Right then and there I vowed to myself I would never become her. I would always be sure I looked amazing before leaving the house. My children wouldn't dare challenge me in public as hers were. And if they did, I certainly wouldn't lose my cool. My make-up would be in tact, and every hair in place. And never, ever would I wear frumpy sweatpants.
After the birth of our first, I decided that all those expectations were not as easily met as I had hoped. Gone were the hours of morning leisure time spent preparing my physical appearance. Spotless clothes weren't as easy to come by. And it turns out that a crying baby sometimes simply cannot be consoled when in public. And most of us know how a crying baby can make a nervous Momma sweat. But still....I worked hard at that appearance of perfection.
As the firstborn grew and two more girls entered the picture, I was still determined to not be That Mama. I labored hard before leaving the house. I braided hair, matched up clothes, wiped snotty noses clean, changed stained shirts and still somehow seemed to pull off getting myself cleaned and properly presented. My little girls were trained in hanging safely onto my pockets when crossing a parking lot, and knew full well any inappropriate behaviors would be dealt with upon returning back home. We might not have had it all together...but we sure looked the part.
Fast forward to the present. Just last week I needed to run to the local pharmacy for some much-needed medicine for my little guys. I almost didn't even hesitate to step out the front door. I gave myself a three-second inspection. Sweat-pant capris. Unshaven legs. Black shirt with obvious snot stains on the sleeve. Pony-tailed hair (freshly washed the day before). I shrugged, grabbed the keys and left.
Mild confession here: I. Am. That. Mother.
I am tired. Haggard. Most days my hair finds itself in a pony-tail. Some days I don't wash it. Some days I do. My clothes are forever disheveled and stained. My children and I take up an entire aisle of the grocery store. In an awesome parade-like fashion. Sometimes my babies are screaming the whole way through. They often throw food on the floor when I'm not looking. Sometimes I pretend I'm not looking. Most times we have people pausing and gawking at us. And once in a while I stop and laugh. At the minor irony. The one thing I vowed never to become...I've become.
And I'm okay with that. In fact....I'm really okay with that. I'm over this thing called perfection. And this other thing called best impressions. And I have really, really come to dislike this terrible, ugly thing called comparison. When I peered into the life of That Mom years ago, I judged her life by my standards at the time. My immaturity and lack of life experiences left me with the perception that her life was so....imperfect. What's doubly funny is that at this particular season in my life...I embrace it now as perfection. Crying babies, disheveled clothes....it's all marks of motherhood. Proof that this Mama's busy at work. It's all good. It all comes with the territory.
Some day I will return to looking well put together. Some day my clothes will be neatly pressed; void of any child-remnants. I will have time once again to keep up a lovely hair style, and perfectly manicured nails. I will grocery shop in quiet and solitude. And when I see "That Mom" in the next aisle over...I will approach her. And tell her that her children are beautiful. And that she's doing a wonderful job.
Because nothing on earth is more wonderful...more tiring...more rewarding...more selfless...more beautiful as being called "Mom".

Happy Mama's Day, Moms. Wear your imperfection well.