I said I would never wear mom jeans. But now I’m a mom and I
have bigger concerns than what you think about my jeans, as long as they stay up
past my crack. I also don’t care if my sneakers are synched and double knotted
like I’m suffocating two hairy ankles. I’m just joking, I still shave .. sometimes.
Some days I even manage to shave both legs.
I also said my kid wouldn’t be the one walking around in
high water pants hula hooping around mid calf. We get it, kids grow a mile a
minute and you’re too tired to keep up. “Tomorrow he’ll be two sizes up anyhow.”
I didn’t want my kid’s laundry looking like it suffered massive shrinkage in
the last load.
But then I had one. And I was enlightened by this denial of
what size my baby is. Her room is lined with dressers, half of the drawers
stuffed with clothes that don’t fit her yet. And still I’m packaging her
thunder thighs like sausages, squeezing rolls upon rolls into skin tight baby
jeggings.
Or this one –
She got these adorable socks from Grandma Sue for Christmas. There are still a few pairs she’s never even
worn, but they’re obviously begging to be added to the donation pile. I can’t
count how many times I’ve thought , “eh why not one last time.” It's this
sad complex you develop as a parent that results in your kids looking like
mine. There is this denial about how big they actually are and how fast they
continue to grow. It’s not like I don’t realize my daughter is two weeks away
from the 6-month mark but there’s just something so official and irrevocable about
opening the drawer to the next size and clipping tags. It’ll mean my tiny girl
is half of a year old and that 3-6 month old bundle is gone forever.
Guess it’s time to add those ridiculously cute socks to the
closet spilling with “just a couple of keepsakes” for the never ending baby
book.
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