In case you were wondering — the lady running around last weekend from one end of the metro area to the other in what can best be described as “Mom High Fashion of Shame.”
Yeah, that was me.
How shall I best describe my outfit?
T-shirt that I had slept in, so big it would still be loose on King Kong. Sweats from 1984, or thereabouts with stains and holes to match. Plastic Croc sandals. Uncombed hair half up in a clip.
Teeth were brushed. Yay for me. Points for that.
Bra? Deodorant? I managed one. Let’s just say you wouldn’t have wanted to come too close.
How did I manage to (as I hear my own mother’s voice shrilling in my head) ever let myself “go out of the house looking like that!”?
I can explain in one word: Karma.
I’ll admit it.
I was that longtime single gal who had “tsk tsk’ed” other women, mothers, leaving the house looking like a hot mess just to get their kids where they needed to go.
“I’ll never do that, if I’m ever a mother,” I said silently. Smugly.
Clearly, we make plans. The Fashion Gods laugh.
How did I step out in the Mommy Outfit of Shame?
Would you believe I thought I was leaving the house for a simple five-minute drop off at the school close to our house?
It’s what I do every weekday — transition from sleep to taxi service by throwing something on the bottom of fancy (not) giant sleep shirt.
Would you believe that simple five-minute drop off turned into a five-hour comedy of errors where, as they say in local news, “something went terribly wrong”?
There I was Saturday morning. All I needed to do was get one of our kids to school so she could hop on a bus to her cross country meet.
When the bus wasn’t there, we figured we’d missed it, so I decided to drive the kid to the actual meet which happened to be more than an hour away.
Or so we thought.
It took two more stops to get to the actual correct location.
And so yes, that was me.
The awful-looking bag lady frantically driving across the state and back looking for a meet, running into countless people I knew along the way.
The lesson in this? Not being attached to how I look? That the kid is more important? That, dare I say this, my mother is right?
I really shouldn’t leave the house looking like that even for five minutes.
I’ve learned a lot in the last few years jumping into this Mommy land.
You’ve been kind, Dear Reader, to not let me know this badge was waiting for me.
Motherhood doesn’t get more embarrassing than this?
Rather, better you don’t tell me.
Let’s keep it to sharing your horrifying Mommy Moment you thought would never come.
Or even, worse, how your mother was right.
I’ll be reading your email from the comforts of my home in some fabulous, huge T-shirt at Daryn@DarynKagan.com.
About the Author
