I stood at the bathroom mirror quickly brushing my teeth, and my 13-month-old toddled around at my feet searching diligently for something to get into. My mousy, dirty dishwater blond hair looked wirey in my reflection, and as I assessed how I could possibly make that mop look decent in the spare time I was provided, I realized I was going on day four since it had been washed. Sigh. With a baby refusing to nap, a full day of homeschooling ahead and the laundry list of additional to-do’s that still loomed, I succumbed to the idea of a ponytail. Again.
I briefly considered changing into something cute, but I thought better of it as I looked down to glimpse my daughter rubbing her snotty nose on my pajama pants. I slid on a pair of stretchy leggings and a generous top to cover my mommy behind. I still hadn’t recovered fully from my postpartum body, but honestly, I knew I never would. It was fine.
Later that afternoon as we hurriedly gathered tap shoes and tutus for an afternoon of dance class, I quickly swiped on some mascara so as not to look quite as dead as I felt. I saw the crinkles at the corners of my large, sleepy eyes, and I laughed at how the years had settled across my face no matter the premium skincare I slathered on at night.
Responsibilities weighed heavy on me, and though I loved my crazy, busy, blessed life, I felt exhausted most days. But not just that. This day, in particular, I felt like I was failing at life. If it could be forgotten at home, I had forgotten it. If it could fall apart, it had done so. Of the many things I desired to accomplish that day, most had fallen by the wayside. So I threw on some comfy boots that to me made up in coziness what they might lack in fashion-forwardness. Yeah, I knew they were hideous, but it was just whatever. Perhaps the other dance moms wouldn’t judge too harshly. I suppose I was in too much of a hurry to care.