This post sat drafted and unrevised in the fashion that I'm sure fellow bloggers are familiar with: You become inspired to opine about a particular subject, hammer out a ridiculous amount of keystrokes building your narrative, and as the text flows, you begin to lose confidence and/or interest in both the content and the subject matter. In my case, I got so long-winded in my composition that my original point got lost in a rambling sea of musings. To add to the post's demise, the life happening around me demanded that I stop halfway through my missive, and the truth is, I never really intended to revisit it. I've learned from past journaling that when that happens, my mind isn't always at the same fervent pitch it was when I started, so my original idea will just trail off into Draft Neverland. Thus was the case with this post, until I came upon another post by Jill Raffiani that was very much along the same thread as my cobwebby draft.
The Letting Yourself Go Debate inspired me to rethink my position, reopen the post-in-the-making, and elaborate on my own position for this very hairy (no pun) subject matter that we're all a bit sensitive to - our appearances. I thank her for the great article, plus the spark and motivation it gave me to not only finish what I'd previously started, but to revise it in a way that would encourage me to KEEP IT REAL, and to dive headfirst into a self-improvement mission that was seriously long overdue.
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I'm no stranger to self-reflection. There's always a steady stream of it playing in the background of my subconscious at any given point in my busy day. It's pretty crowded in there, with the proverbial foot of hindsight kicking me in the back of my head, scolding me for not making better use of my time and brainstorming about how I can expand every nanosecond of the next day to trump the prior day's productivity. Sometimes it's the endless chatter of the merciless, fault-finding heckler that relentlessly points it's gnarled, accusatory finger in my face, nagging me about unfinished projects and giving me a good lashing for being a procrastinating underachiever, even if I managed to get (what I consider) a great deal done before noon. I'm fairly certain that my inner voice is a cross between a mild-mannered philosophical problem solver and a brutal, highly critical Jewish mother figure. These two are constantly at odds with one another at the intersection of Praise Lane and Bash Boulevard, and deciding which one of these counterparts I want to side with kind of drains me sometimes.
Lately, my chief inner grievance has been my failure to reconnect with my femininity after wearing the SAHM hat for almost two years. I've noticed changes in myself on both a physical and emotional level, and it's been troublesome, to say the least. I have a dogged determination not to let anything resembling depression put a damper on what I consider to be a wonderful home life, and I'd rather take a sharp stick in the eye than expose my husband and kids to the extreme funks I can get myself into. Sometimes, I crack. Not often, but I do. I had to come to grips with finding out that I had the tendency to be a sniveling whiny-baby during my meltdowns. I don't let the kids see me in that state, so it usually spills out into my husband's lap complete with tears, sobs and a great deal of snot. And mannnnn, does it feel good to let it out! What I most love about my husband (besides him being good looking, smart and funny) is that he listens to me. He also knows when to sympathize, and has been schooled on knowing when to reel me in when I get too far out there at my pity parties. We both have a huge arsenal at our disposal to fight off my occasional crazies with, and I'd have to say that humor is our tactical weapon of choice. If it weren't for our wisecracking banter and general buffoonery warding off full-blown breakdowns, I'd probably be committed to a padded room and administered several antipsychotic prescriptions.
Since the bane of my existence here recently has been my personal upkeep, I know that it's time to stop kidding myself about it and adopt a new, improved self-betterment ritual that would restore the confidence towards my womanhood. I was never a vainglorious, selfie-posting, smug-kinda-gal prior to becoming a wife, mother and a SAHM, but having a career and the free time to hang out with female friends (who we know and count on to critique us into submission when we get lazy) pretty much mandates that hair, nails, clothing and accessories be tended to on a daily basis. Having that part of my life replaced with being a mommy to three very demanding little babies somehow gave me a license to become lax in the broader areas of maintaining my personal appearance. Some of it is due to finances, and the budget cuts we took in order for me to be able to stay home with the kids. The typical six-week cut, color and blowout I'd treat my coiffure to happens about every six months now, with a few *box* treatments sprinkled in here and there. Spa pedicures and manicures went by the wayside when we started spending $240 a month on diapers and formula. I've always been anti-chick (and not very fashion-forward) in that I hate shopping for and trying on clothes. Luckily for me, I now have a valid reason to never step foot in a mall again. Our clothing budget was cut way back, and since my husband is an office jockey who works with upper management and VP's in his line of work, it only makes sense to make sure that his attire needs are updated and funded before mine are. As you've already figured out, these are nothing short than excuses. These excuses have been holding me back from my quest of self-improvement, and I've been leaning on them as a crutch for far too long.
My husband and I have only been married for three years, but have never put on airs around one another, even from the first date. We just meshed together, au natural, in our base forms, and fell in love without a lot of flamboyant courting rituals closely akin to peacock plumage and mating calls. I had never felt pressure to look a particular way for my husband in order to be his love interest. That said, I was not beneath using the feminine wiles all women possess when it comes to seducing your mate. There's a great deal of pleasure knowing that you can make your partner's heart (and other blood-engorged organs) thump by making yourself alluring and beautiful in ways that you know will steep his attraction to you. Two back-to-back pregnancies and a hysterectomy seemed to put that particular pleasure on the backburner, and while I'm not dissing my husband for being loving enough to not bust my chops about it, I secretly wish he would tell me that he missed that part of my personality. I say this knowing full well that the insecurities I now harbor towards my appearance would cause me to take it as an insult or a jab, so as you can see - the poor man just can't win for losing where this is concerned. Luckily he's tuned into me well enough to know that, so he chooses his answers carefully when I childishly sling the "Do you still think I'm pretty" interrogation his way. I don't believe he is lying to me when he answers in the affirmative, but I do know that on some level, he must miss the "old" me.
After my twin daughters were born, there was a long stretch where I had completely justifiable reasons for wearing my husband's pajama pants and loose T-shirts day in and day out. I'd had a difficult recovery with the C-section, and the trips I made to NICU each day was a bumpy 25-minute ride on the Arkansas interstates (pothole capital of the U.S.A) that required me wearing that ridiculous Velcro bellyband underneath my clothing. Then there was the newborn feeding schedule, multiplied by two, which kept me up all the time. I was practically napping on the fly whenever I could nod off and catch a few zzzzz's, so why bother changing clothes several times a day and night? Four months later after my C-section scar had healed, I was admitted back into the hospital for a complete, lifesaving hysterectomy (up yours, cervical cancer!). The recovery time from that was grueling, especially with 3 babies at home to tend to, and the only person who was around to help while my husband worked was my elderly father. I hardly felt the need to fix my hair and put on makeup in his presence, as he'd seen me at my absolute worst. There began the bad habit of wearing pajamas all day and tying my clean but unkempt hair up into a loose knot at the top of my head. I said I did it because it was "easier". I complained about not having the time to mess with it, knowing full well that I probably wouldn't have bothered even if I did. I was in a deep rut that I'd carved out myself and didn't have the wherewithal to climb out of.
I started having recurring dreams (nightmares!) of my husband being surrounded by beautiful, glamorous women who were all vying for his attention. Through no fault of his, he'd wake up already on my shit list and have to deal with my blatant insecurities and unnecessary bouts of jealousy. I started resenting the fact that he got up every morning, shower and shaved, dressed presentably, and got to mingle in the outside world with other attractive, kempt, polished people. That alone gave me the incentive to start climbing out of the despair pit I'd let myself slide into, and for awhile, I started applying makeup again, straightened and styled my hair, wore my favorite perfume ... It improved my self-esteem, adjusted my attitude, and my confidence came back. It wasn't long before the day-to-day redundancy of housework, chores, multiple diaper changes, and chasing kids tricked me into thinking that sprucing myself up every day was just pointless, and futile, because it didn't look like I was going to be able to leave the house for the next three years save for some trips to the grocery or drug stores. Back into the rut I spiraled. Not wanting to fall prey to the inevitable depression that ruts tend to envelop you in, I began using a fair amount of self-deprecating humor to just laugh away my appearance. Poking fun at one's self can be extremely useful in a lot of situations, and it's often a good exercise to help a person not take themselves too seriously. However, it's not always useful, and can even be more of a hindrance than a help. It allows you to embrace your inconsistencies, and you begin to champion them versus trying to change them. I was shouting from my soapbox about my contentment as a Plain Jane, and I used Mommyhood as the reasoning behind it. I made it sound as though the two went hand-in-hand, and loved roasting and ragging all the airbrushed floozies on the pages of Parenting magazine, looking as glamorous as Supermodels while they held up children that surely didn't come out of their own birth canals, because really ... you're in a size 0 two months after delivering a 10 pound baby boy? I call shenanigans!
So this is where I was, just days ago when I stumbled upon Jill's post in a Google+ parenting forum. When I first read her intro to the Letting Yourself Go Debate, it was the closing line that got me hook, line and sinker: "Who were you before you were a parent?" My first kneejerk reaction to her post was to jump to the defense of women who chose to toss vanity out the window after having kids. I was ready to roll up my sleeves and begin a catlike debate over it, but something inside me (perhaps the scathing Jewish mother who often puts me in check) had me read it again, and again and then another time, to be sure - and I finally admitted that it was, indeed, an incredibly sound wake-up call to women out there who were B.S.'ing themselves like I was. There's no excuse not to pull yourself together each day, she remarked in her missive. You owe it to your husband, your kids ... yourself!
Now, while I didn't jump in my Jeep and head to the first salon that would take me without an appointment, it did inspire me to go back and read my previous draft that pretty much defended my carelessness and resignation. It motivated me to be more honest with myself, and it influenced me to take a personal inventory of something I used to take a fair amount of pride in: Myself.
I get really fired up when I make resolutions. It's almost like the tenacity to do better is a viscous liquid coursing through my veins. I hope to be able to regale countless stories about how the New & Improved Me adopts a whole new livelihood that is filled with excitement, and GLAMOUR, and new adventures with the husband that would make a puritan blush ... but the truth is, I truly wouldn't change anything about the way our life is right now. Nothing makes me happier than all five of us romping around on the floor together playing, or curling up with my husband after the kids are asleep to watch a dozen or so back-to-back episodes of American Horror Story or Walking Dead, popcorn and Hershey kisses in our respective laps. There is nothing more glamorous than taking photos of our kids wearing silly hats, capturing smiles and seeing their funny faces light up with glee. It's not the environment I want to change - it's me. And I'm not changing to make my environment more enjoyable, because absolutely nothing trumps this wonderfully chaotic household, in my book. I'm resolving to change only to feel better about the woman I see staring back at me in family photos or when I look in the mirror. I'd like to be able to high-five her and give her an Atta Girl rather than wince at the dark circles under her eyes that she was too lazy to cover up with foundation. I want my kids to be proud of the way their mommy looks when they enroll in school in the next five years. I want my husband to drive home at breakneck speed after texting him a provocative photo that spells out without words what he has waiting for him when he arrives. In short, I want to be able to make my trifecta of roles balance with one another in harmony - The Wife, The Mommy & The Individual.
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