The Crappy Soccer Mom or Hypocritical Me

For years I’ve been reading the blogs and articles about how parents should act during kids’ sports. We should always be supportive. We shouldn’t yell or get frustrated. We should make sports fun, not work. At the younger ages, we don’t keep score because sports aren’t about winning. And I’ve always nodded along, agreeing and of course pointing fingers at those parents that get uptight and scream at their kids during games. Wow, they are crappy parents! Little did I know that I was turning into one of them.

To my defense, this isn’t how I started. I was very granola about sports when The Moose first started playing. “It’s not about winning or losing; it’s about having fun!” It turns out that this is an easy attitude to have when your child is athletic. And let’s be honest, winning is more fun than losing. And if kids are supposed to be able to count to a hundred before they go to kindergarten, then you can sure as heck bet that they now how to keep score no matter how much you tell them that points don’t matter.

For the past eight years I’ve watched my oldest play his heart out on every field and court. And it’s been a blast – even in intense games where I’m biting my nails, I’ve been having fun. If he lost, I knew that he had tried his hardest and those Full House moments of “What matters most is that you left it all on the court” were easily delivered and truthfully meant. Now I’ve not been the perfect parent. I’ve had moments where I criticized too much and learned my lesson of when to back off and when to wait to give feedback. But I felt like I had this sport-parent role down pretty solid.

Then along came The Rock. While highly competitive, he is also eclectic. His interests range from music to science to sports. He wants to be just like his big brother (on good days) and play sports too. Or so he says. I’m beginning to suspect he just wants the uniform…I should have known what was to happen next when he seemed more overly concerned about putting embellishments on his cleats than about kicking around the ball.

As I did with The Moose, I volunteered to coach The Rock with his U6 soccer team. I’m trying my best to be the fun coach, putting in lots of games at practice and openly admitting that I know very little about soccer (as The Moose can attest.) Practices are a bit challenging with The Rock as he and I have a very special relationship called “See How Much We Can Push Each Other’s Buttons in the Name of Love.” But otherwise, I am surviving. Until I had to coach our first game.

As I said earlier, kids can count. And no matter what you say, they are keeping score. And we are getting slaughtered. It’s 10+ to 1 and regardless of what I’m saying, the kids know that we are not tied. As a competitive person, I’ll admit, I’m getting a bit frustrated for the kids. Losing sucks – even “we aren’t keeping score” losing sucks. But they are working hard out there on the field and I’m trying to find positives to keep them going.

Except for one player - The Rock. He’s out there prancing around, half-heartedly following the ball. He’s carrying on conversations with me, the other coach, the players and himself more than he’s playing a soccer game. And all he wants to know is how many more minutes he has to play.

Oh, I was pissed. He TOLD me he wanted to play soccer. He is the reason why I am giving up my Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings. And here he is, asking me what’s for lunch at 10:15 a.m. All I wanted to do was yell at him to run after the goddamn ball and get his shit together! I must admit, it took all of my restraint to not swear on the field.

Then he asked me why I hadn’t high-fived him during the game. And I told him maybe if he’d start playing some soccer, he’d get a high-five. And that was the moment I realized I was one of those shitty parents that becomes overly competitive during sports. Because here’s the truth: It’s easy to be supportive when your kid is good in sports. It is not easy to be supportive when your kid, regardless of his ability, sucks. And I’m not saying The Rock sucks at sports – quite the contrary. He could be very good – he’s definitely got the competitive spirit and he’s got talent…when he wants to show it. And that’s the rub. He just doesn’t want to play competitively – at least not yet. He wants to simply play. And I’m not used to that. I’m used to a kid that comes out of a game sweating, always looking to improve his performance regardless if it was a win or a loss. I’m not used to a kid that wants to make dirt fireworks (I am not making that up – that’s what The Rock told me he was doing as he threw dirt clods in the air during the game.)

I have always appreciated that The Rock marches to his own drummer. He is the kid that will be opening art galleries, making new chemicals in a lab and putting on fashion shows. And this is something I absolutely love about him. But I thought he’d do that while kicking around a soccer ball too. Guess I’m wrong. I realized that maybe some kids just need support because they got out there and played even if it wasn’t their most favorite thing to do. And that deserves cheering too – because doing something you don’t love is just as hard as playing your heart out when you love the sport – in fact, it’s harder because you don’t have that drive that pushes you when you are tired. And I didn’t deliver. I guess we both were screwing up on that soccer field Saturday.

So this week, I’m reforming. I’m still not going to let The Rock wear a bunch of bling to a game but this time he will get a high-five for simply being out there. I know he’s not always going to be a contributing member to his team. And that’s still going to piss me off - I can't lie. But I’m going to remember that he gave soccer a try and that’s going to have to be enough for me. He’s only 5 and that’s too early to predict his future. Who knows, maybe if I play my cards right, he’ll eventually fall in love with a sport and want to give it his all. Or maybe he’ll just start designing soccer shoes and make millions. Either way, I’m going to find my peace with it and cheer him on regardless if I’m at a soccer tournament or sitting by the catwalk.

My 2015 Annual Review for the Job Title: MOM

2015 Annual Review for the Position of MOM

I’d like to start this year’s annual review by thanking you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with me to discuss my performance. By the nature of our relationship, I know that all conversations must usually revolve around your bodily functions, dinosaurs, or what your brother has done to you lately. So I really do appreciate the thought you’ve put into this. Also, thank you for taking into consideration that I didn’t go to school to be Mom; working my way up through the company has been an eventful and educational 11 years. I am grateful for the opportunity to advance in this company.

Before we formally begin my review, I must note that this year’s continuous feedback has been extremely helpful. They always say that an annual review shouldn’t be a surprise. Knowing that you have been dissatisfied with my service and policies during various times of the year provided real-time feedback that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I always learn something from these conversations. For example, after I threw away the Moose’s math homework by accident, I apologized profusely and announced that I was a “crappy mom.” When the Rock said, “yes, that’s what I always say,” I was able to take that constructive criticism and really work with it. Knowing that status quo is “crappy” has really helped me set some reachable goals, such as being mediocre, unfair and not-sucky.

Ah yes, you’d like to talk about some specific examples of when my work could be improved. Great idea.

Quitting Time aka Bedtime: You are right, I have been knocking off early each day. While I know that the work day should last until you fall soundly asleep, there are times I have a difficult time remaining friendly past 9 p.m. when your bedtime is 8:30 p.m. I know my demeanor deteriorates as the day progresses and after dinner, night time activities, brushing teeth and reading stories, I do sometimes fall short on patience after I’ve told you 8 times to go to bed and stop poking your brother in the eye for God’s sake!  I will work on remaining cheerful from the hours of 4:30 a.m. – 10:30 p.m. You are absolutely correct – 6 hours of rest is plenty. I’ve been lazy.

Refreshments aka Meals: I understand you have been unhappy with your table service lately. I deeply apologize. I felt I was following corporate guidelines by offering a variety of food choices at mealtimes, but I see I have misunderstood the policies. By variety, you meant different kinds of pizza, not different foods themselves. Now your groan over the answer to “what’s for dinner” makes more sense to me. And you have a point – I should always be prepared to answer the question “what’s for dinner?” regardless of time of day or situation. Just pulling into the driveway after a day of work is no excuse for not being able to answer this simple yet critical question.
Oh, and snacks. Yes, I know you are have been dissatisfied with the snack schedule and options. The “cool” snacks have been exhausted by Tuesday afternoon and you are left with crackers, cheese, fruit, veggies and cereal bars as options. I will work more closely with the purchasing department to better plan for our week.

Company Outings: First, I’d like to thank you for giving me the responsibility of planning the company outings. Yes, I know sometimes I do better at this than other times. I will work harder to schedule Skyzone into every weekend – obviously it’s a time management issue on my part. Between basketball tournaments, house showings, birthday parties and general upkeep of the house, I have had a hard time fitting in activities that are clearly detrimental to your well-being. I will adjust my priorities accordingly. Your idea about automatically including a pack of Pokemon cards and a visit to the toy section into every trip to Target will be taken into consideration. Also, I will do a better job of preparing you for the “length of the list” for the grocery store. I understand it would be more convenient for you if I did these things when you were not around or sleeping.

Procurement Procedures: I was pretty sure you were going to bring up last week’s soccer shoe debacle. Again, I was under the impression we were supposed to run a quick ROI before making purchases which is why I declined your request for $40 soccer shoes for your U6 spring soccer season and requested you choose a pair of $27 soccer shoes instead. I now understand that I neglected to take into account that the $40 pair of soccer shoes had a skull on them, which made up for the fact that you would wear them for a total of 16 hours (8 weeks of soccer x (1 hour game + 1 hour weekly practice)). Obviously my math was wrong and didn’t include the part of the equation for the cool factor. While I cannot make up for your broken heart (again, thanks for the real-time feedback!), I did practice drawing skulls for 1 hour so I could add them to your soccer shoes personally. I know it does not adequately make up for my misjudgment but I have learned a valuable lesson. I have learned how to draw skulls.

I appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to set my goals for the next year.

1. Reply to the words “Hey Mom” the first time, regardless of what other activities I am undertaking.
a. Stretch goal: Reply to multiple requests of “Hey Mom” simultaneously.

2. Purchase candy every time you must attend the dreaded grocery store trip.
a. Stretch goal: Purchase candy for you every time I go to the grocery store or really anywhere with candy whether you are there or not.

3. Update our bedtime routine to include a floating hour, endless stories and less hygiene.
a. Stretch goal: Lay in bed with you until you fall asleep at 10 p.m. and THEN make your lunch, clean up the house, etc. Obviously these personal agenda items should not take place during “your time.”

4. Stop “breaking your heart” every day with unjust policies.
a. Stretch goal: Anticipate said “heart breaking” activities before they happen.

I believe my merit raise of 2 less brotherly fights/day is more than generous. I would have been happy with just 1 less brotherly fight/day. I will work hard to earn that raise. I look forward to your continuous efforts to make me an acceptable mom and next year’s annual review.

No Crying Over Spilled Sauce or It Takes a Lot to Make Me Blush

All of us are born with a sense of wanting to preserve our dignity. Throughout middle school and high school we try to act like and look like our friends, all in the attempt to not be embarrassed and ridiculed. In college we try to be different because in being unique, we are still conforming to a norm – but this one means that to be the same, we must be different. Just this week a college student explained to me that being called “basic” is a major insult – no one wants to be average. I thanked her for keeping me cool by updating my slang and smiled inwardly because not being “basic” is actually the same thing as trying to fit in and be normal.

So throughout most of our early years we strive to avoid publicly shaming ourselves. And then we have children. I had no idea that what would have embarrassed me in my early 20’s wouldn’t even register on my Richter scale now. Tripping and falling in public? Who cares! Walking around with a huge hole in my pants? Hey at least I’m wearing pants!

I’m not sure when we transition to being immune to humiliation. I think our adjustment starts when our sweet babies are born. Maybe it’s when we are delivering our babies and we have people all around our woo-hoos poking and prodding in there. Just think, when we were 21, we really tried not flashing our panties* while we were a little too drunk at that skeezy bar. And now people are huddled around that area quite matter-of-factly. And once we have that first baby, we’ve got lactation nurses in the hospital, grabbing our boobs trying to shove our nipples in just the right position. “Um, hey lady, my main goal for the past 27 years was to make it so that my nipple wasn’t out for the world to see. But hey, you just keep on going since you seem on a mission and my baby is screaming. Yes, I’m totally relaxing so I can ‘let down.’” And have you seen what nursing bras look like? That is a humiliation in and of itself.

As our babies grow, they strengthen our immunity to embarrassment. It’s like they are training us for a crazy adventure race. Once at a wedding reception (where we were sitting right by the buffet table) the Moose vomited, Exorcist style, all over me. Like he stood up, looked at me and opened his mouth and everything he’d ever consumed landed in my lap. To this day, I think he puked so hard that it went through me because when I stood up, despite being puked on in my front, I had puke on my back and butt. My neighbor apologetically wiped the back of my pants so I could careful walk out of the reception, with my drenched clothes hanging on me, my husband gagging at the smell, and the Moose skipping along asking when we were going to have dinner. At that stage of motherhood, I still felt embarrassed. Little did I know I was just training for that portion of the race where you crawl through the mud. We haven’t even started getting ready for the part where you run through the electric wires.

At that point I didn’t realize how many times I’d be puked on or pooped on yet. Or how babies only blow out their diapers in Target or restaurants. Or how you can be sitting in church and notice that your toddler is sticking his hand down your shirt. Dealing with these minor indignities prepares us for a day of spectacular portions.

It takes a lot to make me embarrassed now. Two weeks ago I was at the grocery store checking out and managed to drop a glass jar of spaghetti sauce on the ground. Of course it shattered, not only leaving glass fragments but spaghetti sauce EVERYWHERE. Clean up in aisle 10…literally. Moose was mortified. The Rock was bemused. And I looked down and thought, “So do I just keep putting stuff on the conveyor belt?” I did and we checked out minus one jar of spaghetti sauce. My lesson? Maybe I should start buying the cheaper sauce that comes in cans instead?

So I was feeling pretty invincible when it came to public spectacles. Oh friends, you and I both know that when you get cocky about life, you will get it shoved right back in your face. Just this week I was fortunate enough to increase my training level for my tolerance of embarrassing moments.

We were house hunting and visited a house that the owner was showing himself. We are looking around, making that friendly small talk that you have to make because you are in an awkward situation of judging someone’s home while they are there watching you. That’s when the Rock took off to go to the bathroom. “Oh, we are so sorry,” we said, and to be honest, it really wasn’t that awful. Rock needed to pee, no biggie. We continue looking around the house. Then I notice that the Rock is nowhere to be found. Where did this kid go? Was he climbing on the beds? Because he had just gotten a lecture about that at the other house we looked at! Oh but no, it was so much better (or worse depending on how you look at it.)There, with the door wide open, is my baby, sitting on the potty. Friends, it is one thing to pee in someone’s house. It is another thing to poop in someone’s house, especially a stranger’s. And I thought, “Yes, this is the tipping point. THIS is embarrassing.” Now we are apologizing profusely and really meaning it this time. Peter runs in to help clean Rocco up and I am still trying to smooth over this amazing moment in parenthood. The guy, who looks just as embarrassed as we do, laughs it off but we all know, we have made a name for ourselves. “Hey guys, you think selling your home is tough? Try having a preschooler crap in your bathroom!” It’s like we were homeless and looking for a place to tidy up.

Well played Rock. I now have a new threshold for being embarrassed. My new benchmark for awkwardness is now, well, is my son pooping in a stranger’s house we are considering buying? No? Then who cares! I’m sure this isn’t the worst thing that will happen. And I am depending on other parents like you to look at me and think, “Hey, no judging here! My kid doesn’t shut the door when he poops either!” I promise to be just as gentle minded when your kid does something even more impressive. And just remember as we dodge the mudpits and electric wires of parenthood, we are simply making special memories that will all come to light at their senior parties. Paybacks are hell.  

*If you have an issue with the word “panties” please read one of my prior blogs and get over it.

From Poop Schedules to College Or I Will Leave You Alone as Long as I Can Call You Whenever I Want

Dear Moose,

We are in a transition period. I know that you are growing up. Soon you will be eleven and in middle school. And because I am dramatic, I recognize that this means you are practically in college. Knowing that time is of the essence, I am already working on letting go, even if you can’t tell. I refuse to become a helicopter parent. I see it too much and it is not someone I want to become. But….it turns out, this is quite hard.

You see, I have been watching your every movement like a stalker since I found out I was pregnant. We were instructed to count your kicks every hour in utero. But micromanaging did not stop once you were born. I received weekly updates from overly helpful websites telling me exactly what developmental delays I should be on the lookout for. Your every move has been scrutinized and you didn’t even know it! Even in daycare, I would receive a daily sheet telling me what you ate, how much you ate, when you ate, when you slept, how many wet diapers you had and when you pooped. Little did you know that we have been tracking everything you do since you were born!

Of course starting kindergarten was quite the change because it turns out, kindergarten teachers don’t watch how much you eat or how many times a day you go to the bathroom. How am I supposed to know if you are safe and healthy if I don’t know these intimate details about you?! I’m just supposed to expect you to tell me? But when I asked you what was for lunch, you couldn’t remember. What? Argh! Did you eat? Are you wasting away? Naturally kindergarten was the first step as it forced me to let go a bit and rely on you to know how to take care of yourself when it came to your basic needs. I’d like to think you are fully capable of taking care of the base needs now, yet sometimes I find I still have to tell you that you need to wear shoes. But I digress…

Now you are getting to the age where you can be dropped off at places without me. Just this weekend I let you watch your friends play basketball and I wasn’t there. I know that very responsible parents that I trust were around. But while I may have seemed cool and collected on the surface, I was ready to text you every 5 minutes to make sure no one had drugged you in the bathroom and taken you across state lines. Obviously I made you take your phone. I can track you with it, which you may not know. Fun fact, did you know I literally hyperventilated the first time I let you use a public restroom on your own? I still actually watch the bathroom door waiting for you to reemerge. Sorry!

These are baby steps for me. Soon you will be driving. Wait, no you won’t. I can’t actually go there mentally so I’m going to deny that you will have the capability of being able to transport yourself to different location and come home on your own accord. Let’s skip over driving. Soon you will be going to college. I think you should go wherever you want, even if it is far far away. But you need to understand that weird shit happens in college. Although all of my weird stuff was from guys, I’m sure girls are just as able to stalk you, leave strange notes on your door and steal your underwear as well. And I won’t be there to protect you. I won’t know every detail of your day or even if you went home at night. Oh my gosh, don’t do drugs or smoke and always use a condom! If those are the only things you remember from your upbringing, I am happy. I’m going to breathe through this panic attack I’m having at the thought of college.

I know you will need to branch out. You will need to make your own decisions. I will not raise a son who cannot think on his own. Your wife would hate me. And I would hate me too. You have to be independent. And I am learning that this is harder on me than it will be on you. So I’m going to keep trying to let things go, because soon I’ll have no choice. You’ll be a man and your decisions will bear consequences only you can accept, no matter how much I want to take care of you. I’ll transition from someone who takes care of you to someone who supports you. There is a difference. And I think that’s what a good mom does – she finds that balance.

So here’s to the next stage in life. I trust that you are a smart kid and you’ll make the right decisions. And when you don’t, I’ll be there to help you out. And for goodness sake, remember to take your phone. I’m not cutting the cord entirely.

Love,

Mom

The World Needs More Assholes or Bedtime Deep Thoughts

Disclaimer: I really shouldn't have to put a disclaimer on this because if you know me at all, you would know how much I love my children. They beat my heart and fill my lungs with air. I truly don’t know who I’d be without them. But that being said…sometimes they are assholes.

Have you ever had a boss that screams at you for two hours straight, despite you basically running the company for them? They call you names and tell you how much they can’t stand you. If so, it sounds like your boss is an asshole. Now picture yourself madly in love with this boss. And the boss is about five years old. And ironically enough, you've had lengthy conversations about how YOU in fact are the boss, not someone who doesn't know how to tie their shoes yet. This boss is my baby and even though he is my baby, he is still being an asshole.

Sometimes kids are assholes. I suppose if I were a better person, I could come up with different adjectives for them. Perhaps “determined,” “self-assured,” “persistent.” And those words would all be true. But if you put them all together and add a side of “abusive,” you get a common asshole.

It turns out that I too can be an asshole at times, so my children come by it naturally. It also means that while exhausting, I can handle it. It sucks. It wears me down. It makes me question every parenting choice I've made. But I can (barely) handle it when my handsome five year old becomes a gremlin and yells and screams at me for two hours because it is bedtime.

These moments become a bad psychology experiment for both of us. The Rock tries pleading, negotiating, yelling, screaming, name calling, then backtracks to regret, only to find that it still means it’s bedtime, then spirals back to screaming and name calling. On my part, I exhibit patience, persistence, sternness, yelling, screaming, then regret, only to find it still doesn't work, then I fall back on humor. At a certain point, I’m waiting for Super Nanny to walk in with her video camera and tell me everything I’m doing wrong to get little Rock to go to sleep peacefully. Fortunately documentation does not exist and unfortunately no one drops in to defuse the situation. The Rock and I are on our own to figure out whose willpower is stronger.

At some point in the madness, one must find something funny about the situation or else you risk losing your mind. There is something therapeutic for me when I realize that my sweet baby has turned into an asshole for the moment. Maybe I put my babies on pedestals a bit and it’s kind of reassuring that they are also human, and all humans are capable of being assholes sometimes in my opinion.

And the more I think about it, the world could use more assholes, as long as their powers are used for good, not evil. We need people who push and push for their agenda, who get angry when they don’t get their way, who continue to look for ways to make it right, and keep trying until justice is served.

So after The Rock and I had both calmed down, embraced the fact it was indeed bedtime (for both of us), and said our apologies, we had a conversation.

Me: “You know, someday it’s going to be a good thing that you get so angry about things. I want you to get angry about children being hungry. About babies being sick. About people being mean to others. I want you to get as angry about kids not having enough to eat as you do about going to bed. And then I want you to do something about it.”

Rock: “What will I do about it?”

Me: “Well, you are going to get so angry about kids being hungry or sick that you are going to save the world.”

Rock, pausing: “Will you help me?”

Me: “I’ll always help you Baby.”

That night I went to bed, knowing that The Rock would be okay and that I would be okay. That one day his personality was going to help him do big things in the world. We just have to work together to channel that energy, one bedtime at a time.

A Mom Pep Talk or Puke is a Part of a Rock Star Lifestyle

You know those mornings. You wake up early, ready to start the day. You hit the gym and have an amazing workout - the kind where you feel 10 years younger. When you get dressed, you find you can squeeze into your pre-baby fat jeans (please see chart below) – score! As you start working on your look for the day, your hair miraculously cooperates and you remember that this type of day is the reason you didn’t cut it last week. This is one of those mornings where you are a rock star! You are a mom, but you still have IT. You are a fierce warrior woman – hear you roar!

Then you hear the roar. The kids are fighting again. It’s okay, it’s okay. You are a warrior woman – you can handle this with a sense of calm justice. You are going to rise above and wait them out – perfect parenting technique by making them work out their differences themselves. You are amazing.

Then you hear the roar again. The dog is constipated and needs to go out AGAIN for yet another fruitless walk. It’s okay, it’s okay. This walk will just allow you a little more exercise, right? Those pre-baby fat jeans don’t just wear themselves – you’ve got to work for it, right?

Then there is another roar. The kids fought to the point of the youngest getting so worked up that he started barfing all over. What the hell? Come on! The last thing you want to do wearing your cute fat jeans with your awesome hair, is clean up the toilet and surrounding areas of barf – especially when you know it’s not the flu, it’s just an overreaction.

And that’s when it happens. Your fierceness starts to fade. You are kneeling in your once cute outfit, scrubbing the floor, stripping your youngest down so he can shower, and basically starting the day over. The blooming flower you once were has started to droop. The dog starts whining again – of course she needs to go outside once more!

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and instead of that rock star from the morning looking back at you, you see a harried mom, hair now up in a ponytail, make up smeared and you resign yourself to thinking about your next grocery list, knowing the only thing your kids will ask you about yourself today is not “how is it that you are in your late 30s and still look so hot?” but instead “what do you plan to make me for lunch?” You might as well change out of those cute fat jeans and put on a pair of mom jeans. Maybe you still have a maternity pair lying around – they are good for cleaning in at least.

STOP! Don’t do it! I am here to tell you that you can still be a rock star cleaning up puke. Rock stars are around puke all the time – most of the time it’s probably theirs! You don’t have to be a dowdy mom (unless you want to be – that’s your choice of course and I respect it.) You still have IT. You just have to have IT while you are doing the mom stuff too. I know you don’t have the nannies, chefs and personal trainers that the stars do. I know when you go out of the house looking messy it’s not a fashion statement like it is for Katie Holmes but a statement on the day. But don’t let that stop you! 

Every mom is a rock star. Some of us just have harder tour schedules and play for rougher crowds than others. Let your awesomeness shine. And sure, it’s going to fade now and then. There will be times you are more concerned about your dog pooping than you are that you got your workout in. But rise above my friends. Those are merely temporary setbacks in the game of life. Remember who you are. You are a mom who fit into her pre-baby fat jeans for Pete’s sake! Now wash your hands, put the kids in clean clothes and hit the mall like you wanted to. Don’t let a little barf and lack of poop stop you from being fierce! 

RANKING OF JEAN SIZES

Skinny Pre-baby jeans	Already gave them away
Pre-baby jeans	One can always hope
Pre-baby fat jeans	A goal to strive for
Post-baby jeans	A typical day
Post-baby fat jeans	Must be the holidays
Maternity jeans	Just wear a long shirt and no one will notice the wide elastic band on top

I Am a Fallen Angel or At Least It’s Clean

Fun fact #1 about me: My best girlfriends and I were fortunate enough to work together at Victoria’s Secret for two years. 

Fun fact #2 about me: I used to own over 30 different bras. 

Not so fun fact #3 about me: My bras and panties* no longer match.

Now this may not seem like much of a confession to you, but for many years, not a day went by when I was not wearing a matching ensemble. At times, I’d even match my outer wear outfit that you saw with what I was wearing underneath. Even my sports bra and panties matched when I went to the gym. And now before you is a sad remnant of the past, someone who is simply excited that she managed to find clean panties that don’t dig into her flesh.

How did I get here? This was not a sudden drop in personal care, oh no. I held it together with my first child. While the number of my bras diminished from 30+ to 10, I still managed to pull it together enough to match, because what you wear underneath sets the tone on top (or something like that.) I may not have been awake enough to drive safely or make major decisions, but I could still tell my colors apart. I still had my standards. Then I had my second child.

Then one morning I was getting dressed and realized I was wearing some crummy cotton panties with a nice bra. What?! What had happened to me? What had I become? Well, a working mother of two, but that’s besides the point. When had I let myself go to the point that I was wearing orange flowered panties with a black bra? Ack! The horror! And then I finished getting dressed, walked the dog, and dropped my kid off for the bus before going to work.

It’s funny how the little things that were important aren't anymore. I've got bigger fish to fry than my undergarments. Do we have bread, sunbutter, and applesauce in the pantry? Are the kids wearing clean clothes? Does everyone have their lunch packed for tomorrow? Did someone feed the dog today? (Usually this answer is no – thankfully we have a very patient dog.) But “do my panties and bra match?” no longer makes my radar.

We were watching the Victoria’s Secret fashion show this week and the “Angels” were commenting on how nervous they were to walk the runway. It was a major job responsibility obviously and caused them much angst. I understand that perspective is everything, but I thought about my Victoria Secret girlfriends and I, managing motherhood and jobs the best we can; being stressed about walking down a runway in my bra and panties, wearing huge wings and heels seems a bit laughable. I’ll take a runway over running my kid to the ER any day. Now that’s stress.

I may be a fallen angel who wears cotton with satin and mismatches daily, but I’m still pulling off quite a bit every day. Can I still earn my wings? And the stuff I do you can actually see, as opposed to being hidden under my clothes. It’s all about acceptance, right? Although don't get me wrong, a few new matching sets would still be nice…

*Men wear underwear. Women wear panties. You may not like the word "panties" but you'll just have to get over it.