Our Very First Playdate

Thanks for coming for our very first playdate at dirt from the playground. A little about me: I love my kids and husband like nobody’s business and I am doing my very best to master this whole mommy thing. Like any parent, I need a little break from mommy-ing now and then, so I get cheap thrills from watching way too much television (Andy Cohen is a genius), indulging in pop culture nonsense (I actually want to know Who Wore It Best), stealing as much time as possible with my friends and working, which for me includes both charity work and freelance writing.

I always knew deep down I wanted to be a mom and once it happened, I was psyched. I use an immature word like psyched because I had absolutely no idea what I was in for. The good, the bad and the amazing-but I had no idea what I was in for!

For instance, if you are as OCD as I can be, being a mommy can be difficult for a number of reasons. As someone that used to vacuum the floors on a daily basis, organized every scrap of paper, and scrubbed the tubs, toilets and remade beds immediately after the cleaning service left, these days, I find myself too exhausted to even shower when my kids have accidents on my clothes. My mail is sometimes unopened for weeks and important papers, whatever those are, sit on my nightstand until I can motivate to figure out where to move them to next.

I used to refresh with a nightly skin care regimen that included millions of cremes (spelled creme, not cream because before kids I could afford cremes), but these days, slapping on some moisturizer on top of my leftover makeup from the night before counts as me really taking care of myself.

And because my clothes are just going to get ruined by paint, markers, food or kids in general, sweats now count as stylish pants during the day…jeans are for dressing up at night. I even have my “nice” gym shoes and “sexy” full-butt underwear…if it’s lace, it’s pretty, right? Even if it does cover everything from my belly button to my knees.

My shoes are flat, my bras are most likely the wrong size and my makeup is rarely used, but I’m lucky. My husband still pretends that I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and my kids don’t care about my chipped nail polish or my un-microdermabrasioned skin because I’m mommy…I’m automatically the best lady they’ve ever known.

And I wouldn’t trade that title for all the pre-children stilettos or organized paperwork in the world.

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