I love getting dressed up for Sunday, but after three hours of wrestling an active sixteen month old I am so ready to get out of my nice things and return to my grunge wear. It is so much easier to make my boy happy when I don't have to worry if my skirt is riding up too high or if all the buttons on my shirt are still done up.
This is what I have to remind myself of every time I go shopping. I will drool over blazers and silk blouses. I will try on skirt after knee length skirt. I covet the spike heels. Then I stop, take in a deep, cleansing breath and remember I no longer have as many places to wear these fancy things. I have plenty of business attire from my working girl days and am lucky if I have occasion to wear them even thrice a month. Sometimes I really wish I were more conscious of the things I wear. Once in a while I wish I could be a cool, stylish, European styled dame. Alas those thoughts fizzle as soon as I go a couple of rounds with our convertible car seat. After I get all sweaty and frustrated I am thankful for my momiform of jeans and tees.
Alas, fancy things are mostly reserved for Sunday. That is the life I lead and love. On the seventh day I primp and curl. I lay out my outfit like its the first day of school. I add lipstick, which never happens. Then, three hours later, I turn back into a pumpkin and am happier for it.
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