Apparently the hairstyle I’ve been wearing for the past two and half years is called “mom hair.” It’s the style you see on most women at Target that’s in an unbrushed ponytail on a head of hair that hasn’t seen a shower in a day (sometimes two). I suppose even calling it a hairstyle is misleading, because that invokes the word “style,” which is so not in my vocabulary these days. I can toss it in the IDGAF bin. Here are a few other things in that bin…
I wear my leggings as pants. I know this is a fashion faux pas, or at least I’ve been told it is on more than one occasion. My husband asked me if I was wearing pajamas the other day. Look, I know it’s not attractive. I know the risk of camel toe is prominent. IDGAF. It’s comfortable, dammit. Skinny jeans can rot in hell at this point. I’m tired of the frantic squat hops to get those things off and on. I’ve nearly toppled over on more than one occasion (wine may or may not have been involved), so they’re a safety hazard, as far as I’m concerned. Let your local LuLaRoe distributor know I’m a big fan, and I can’t get enough of my leggings.
High heels can suck it. I just bought my first pair of Birkenstocks and can I just say, “Hallelujah!” Finally, someone understands me. Whoever invented high heels had a serious agenda to bring down women. They are painful, they are awkward, they are just wrong. I don’t care if they make my legs look hot. Shaving’s supposed to do that, too, but you don’t see me sportin’ the razor, either — well, unless I’m planning a pedicure or I have a wedding anniversary. Hairy legs compliment my Birkenstocks much better anyway.
Speaking of hairy, can someone call my esthetician and let her know I’m alive and well? I used to be a wax regular. Brows, lip, and bikini (Brazilian, natch). Thinking about the money I spent for someone to rip the hair out of my hoo-ha by the root makes me cringe now. I mean, seriously, who exactly was I trying to impress? A man? No man is worth that pain. Myself? Making myself look pre-pubescent so I can look in the mirror and pretend to be on the cover of Maxim may have been exciting in my 20’s. Today I could not care less.
I have no idea how many steps I took today, but it sure as hell wasn’t 10,000, and IDGAF. Who came up with that number anyway, and have they ever been a mother? A mother’s activity tracer should include the number of child lift and carries, short sprints to catch them before they get in trouble, and panic attacks every time a kid starts screaming. Now that’s a goal I can crush every day.
Can perfume just go away? Can we all just agree to stop wearing it? First, the only aroma you will whiff around me is some deodorant (maybe), subtly blended with traces of urine and spit-up. If that makes me stinky, whatever. I’m with my kids most of the time, and they don’t seem to mind. Besides, it’s their urine and spit-up anyway. Second, perfume is gross. It smells like you’re trying to cover something up, which as you already know, I’m not. It also is distracting, sometimes nauseating, and it’s expensive as hell. If you think perfume is an important part of everyone’s daily regime, I guess we can’t be friends.
Look, I’m not planning on winning any fashion awards in the near future. My perfume contract with Chanel never came in the mail. And most of the time I look like I just stepped out of a scene from The Walking Dead. IDGAF. My kids are happy and healthy, my husband still thinks I’m hot (right, honey?), and I love my life.
And that’s something to give a fuck about.
About the Author
Celeste is a mom to two boys under three, and loves to write about the good, bad, and the “what the heck am I doing??” parts of motherhood. She is also a marketing professional, which has armed her with bountiful experience in cleaning up poop and managing temper tantrums. Sign up at And What a Mom!