Why sweat pants and a two year old do not go together.

At least once a day I usually end up doing the dishes, vacuuming, or flossing my teeth with my underwear and sweat pants down around my ankles.

Hmmm....I wonder if that has anything to do with all the strange old men hanging around my house lately.

Is motherhood making me stupid? Yes. I don’t know…wait…what was the question?
Yes, I do believe motherhood is making me stupid. Stupidier. Stupided. Stupiding.
Whatever.
My brain is turning to mush.
Not too imply that before my egg was fertilized I was a genius, or even highly intelligent. But I was doing okay for myself. I could carry on a conversation about things other than baby measurements, car seats, and diapers. I spoke about topics other than how to puree baby food, the difference between a diaper rash and a rash caused by teething, and music that didn’t involve sentences about big red cars or trot ol’ Joe. I would never have had a conversation with someone about breast engorgement, nipple blisters, or C-section scars.
But today, the above is all I know.
The only type of news I’m able to follow and understand are entertainment stories. If you want me to read another uninteresting article about Jennifer Garner, fine. It’s simple, easy, mindless. Perfect for me. Ask me to read something about politics, science, or…something else a smart person wrote and you’re asking too much. You’re asking for a miracle, because I know those articles have words with more than six letters. That’s A LOT of letters!
I may be able to subsist (somewhat poorly) on five hours sleep but that’s the only miracle I’m performing these days. Unless you count getting my daughter dressed while she’s practicing jumping; when I see her in a diaper, shirt, AND pants I admit I do feel like a small miracle has occurred.
But back to my shrinking brain.
I can no longer do math.
I tried to multiple 12 by 7 the other day and I found it challenging.
“Ok seven times two is…right 14 and then… 14 times…no…oh right! Carry the one and then…” Was how it went for many many minutes.
I also tried to figure out what our down payment would be on our new house—in my head.
Big mistake. Because it actually hurt my head. I was in pain.
Speaking proper English has become…difficult.
I say ‘gotta’ way too much and the other day I said a sentence to my husband that made me sound like I had been raised by white trash wolves. I can’t wait for my daughter to start school so that she can teach me how to properly structure a sentence again.
“Where does the noun go? Why do I need a preposition? What’s wrong with a double negative?”
My imagination is virtually gone.
I rotate three meals now for dinner. By 5:00 pm I am so tired that to come up with a meal that is nutritious, tastes good, and is relatively simple to prepare is ludicrous. So I alternate. One meal a week is nutritious. Another one tastes good. And the remaining one is simple.
My husband has begun to refer to them by color.
When my husband attempts to have conversations with me about things other than poop, the park, or the Wiggles I’m lost. Really, it’s like he’s speaking a whole other language.
Sometimes I can't help but become irrated with him when he tries to have a conversation with me. Is he doing it on purpose? Is he trying to make me feel stupid? Does he think its funny to watch my expression turn to one of complete panic when he brings up a subject that involves complex thoughts? Why does he speak to me with so many words? Why isn't he singing to me about flowers and ponies?
I want to yell at him, "Can't you see my blank stare! Don't you see the drool running down my chin? I no speaky proper English!"
But hopefully if I just play along for a little while longer my brain will start to get the hang of it. Maybe it will even start to grow big again.

My eyes shifted a millimeter to the right and my heart stopped. In the mirrors reflection I saw a man and woman walking towards me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the man. It was Him. My man. Well, he had been my man. Many, many years ago. And now here He was.
Nooooo! This was NOT how it was supposed to be. Nothing that was happening this very minute was supposed to be happening. He was the one and only person I had ever had the ‘run into’ fantasy about. And everything was wrong. Nothing was right. For one, in my fantasy I had showered recently. And I was supposed to be wearing one of my fantasy outfits. This changed depending on my mood but I had finally narrowed it down to one outfit—a silk green top I had bought years ago (in reality this shirt was a little itchy and didn’t hang right on me but in my fantasy it looked as it had on the mannequin. It showed plenty of non-plastic cleavage, did not give me a rash, and gave me a perfect glowing complexion). Depending on the weather I paired this either with a short somewhat whorish skirt or a pair of fabulous jeans that made my ass look great and my legs four feet long. In my fantasy I was wearing makeup, I had brushed my hair, and was not covered in chocolate, peanut butter, or snot.
Oh and I had no rolls on my tummy! Very important part of my fantasy.
My eyes jumped back to my reflection and I took in what he was seeing.
It wasn’t good.
It was actually very very bad.
Imagine someone showing up at your house unexpected. No warning. No preparation. No chance to create that false sense of reality that outsiders saw.
What would they find?
Would your house look like it belonged in Vogue Living or would it look like it belonged in one of those Oprah episodes where she has someone go out to your house and insult your lack of cleanliness? Would your child be wearing an immaculate princess or sailor outfit complete with combed hair, clean hands and face? And while looking like a cherub will they have taken a reprieve from the whole hitting, throwing hard objects, spitting, and crying phase that seemed like their favorite phase EVER?
Or would they find the real you; the way you really live?
Would there be dirty dishes in the sink and perhaps even on the floor? Would your diaper garbage pail be full of smelly diapers? Would your perfect little cherub baby in fact be covered with food residue, tears, and only content with slapping your face? Would all their toys be put neatly away in that cute wooden chest you had painted or would they be scattered everywhere? And would the (I’d never let my child watch it!) television be on in a vain attempt to entertain your child so you could…breath for a few minutes?
And what would you look like? I know I know. The image makes your shudder.
Well that’s what I looked like right now. In front of Him. And the very pretty, clean Her with Him.
Here’s what they saw.
Me. Looking like absolute hell.
But it got worse.
Let’s go back five minutes so that you can appreciate the full extent of how much worse it truly was.
I had come to the store knowing that it was a bad idea. But I had planned on only being inside long enough to buy my husband some much needed new underwear. I knew my daughter was against the idea with every being of her body but my husband was desperately in need of underwear that didn’t look like it had cleaned the floor, been set on fire, and cut with scissors in a drunken rage and since my daughter was generally against doing anything that didn’t involve a sand box or slide I figured I’d just run in and out. Five minutes top.
But then I had seen it. And it was gorgeous. I was instantly in love. And I could tell it felt the same way about me. It was fate. Truly it was.
So I broke my own rule. Well rules actually. I bribed my daughter. With chocolate! And I let her not only sit on the stores floor but also put a hanger into her mouth. And I’m pretty sure she was playing with an old piece of gum that was stuck to the carpet.
But I had to (had to!) try my beloved on. At first I had tried to take my daughter to the fitting rooms but she had plopped herself down in front of a mirror and was happily banging away on it with the wet hanger and so I thought…well why not.
So with a glance over my shoulder and confirmation that no one was around I removed the garment from its hanger and with an apology put it on over my dirty t-shirt.
It was amazing. The color was a soft mauve and the white lace trim was so delicate and pure. I’d never seen anything so perfect (oh—I mean besides my daughter I’d never seen anything so perfect). And it was so soft, it felt like…like water feels as you slide into a hot bath (remember taking those?). I couldn’t stop running my fingers over the fabric it had been so long since they’d touched something so clean.
And that’s when I’d seen them.
I shifted my eyes back to my reflection and took it all in. My daughter sitting on the floor, her face a chocolate mess, banging away on the mirror and screaming some song only she knew the words to. And me in my mom jeans, my stained t-shirt with the beautiful bra over it; and my hands…groping the bra, which meant I was groping my boobs.
Again--in front of Him. And Her.
I stopped rubbing my fingers over the exquisite creation (or my nipples and I imaged they were thinking) and slowly turned towards them.
“Oh…wow…hi.” I said with what I hoped was a normal smile as I reached behind me and unclasped the bra. I slid the bra down my arms and folded it up small in my hands hoping to make the whole situation disappear.
They returned my smile but I could see through their politeness. It was their eyes. I saw fear, concern, and confusion. And a little disgust as they glanced down at my daughter.
“Oh!” I reached down and pulled her away from the mirror that she had been making out with, leaving behind a brown slimy mess.
When I did this my daughter reached out with the speed of a cheetah and the strength of a bear and ripped the crumbled bra from my hands.
“No honey! Give mommy.” I grabbed her chocolate hands and tried to unclasp them but she’s a tough little thing and by the time I finally got it away from her we were both a sweaty messes. And my beautiful clean bra was no more.
I noticed that neither one of the audience members had said anything yet. They were just taking the drama in as it unfolded.
“So how you’ve been?” I asked as I bent over and searched though my purse for a diaper wipe.
“Oh yea…I’ve been—“
“Ow! Honey! Don’t hit mama. Mama loves you. Be gentle. Gentle. Ha.” I said casting a sideways glance at the frowning duo.
“Do you have any kids?” I asked trying to dodge my daughter’s very UNgentle slaps.
They both shook their heads no.
And then I heard him mumble “Thank god” and She laughed.
“Oh they’re not that bad.” I said defensively. “When they’re yours its different.”
“Right.” He said.
“So you’ve been good?”I asked again.
“Oh yea. I’m running the—“
“No! Honey. Ick! No touch. That’s gross old gum. Ick ick.” I said as I reached down and picked my daughter up.
“So gross.” I heard Her mutter.
I was about to say something but then my daughter leaned over and gave me a kiss.
“Oh mommy loves you.” I said as she said her version of I love you (la la la) back.
I looked up and smiled at Him and Her, expecting to see appreciation in their eyes for what they had just witnessed. But there was none.
“Well it was great chatting with you.” He said as they both backed up.
“Yea…nice—“
“Ouch! Honey remember no hit. Pat gentle.” I said to my daughter who was no longer giving out kisses or I love you’s.
I looked back up to finish saying good bye but they were gone. Back to their childless world.
And me back to my child filled world.
“I wouldn’t trade you for anything.” I said to her and I quickly put the dirty wrinkled bra back on its hanger and hung it behind a robe. I looked at my daughter and she looked at me with a smile.
And then spit a little piece of chocolate at me.

I swear it happened over night. I went to bed Monday night and Tuesday morning I woke up and…oh god I can’t even say it. But it happened. There’s no denying it. And I’m not even sure I can fight it. But I’m gonna try my hardest. I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. Hell no. It’s a matter of survival. Of pride. It’s only right and it’s only fair that I get a little more time of not being…
A ma’am.
I’ll be anything else. I’ll be a ‘Miss’; a ‘Hey you’; ‘wench’ even.
Anything but a ma’am.
I’m sure I’ve been called a ma’am before; I am after all one week away from turning 34. But the other day it happened and it was different. It was real. Her eyes meant it. Her expression meant it. Her attitude was genuine.
I was a ma’am to her.
This girl, this conniving evil soulless bitch, had turned to me as I stood, holding my daughter and said the following heartless words--
“Can I help you ma’am?”
What? Ma’am? Who? Me?
Oh no. I don’t think so (head weaving back and forth, one hand on hip, other snapping in the air, eyebrows arched).
But it was. It was me.
The truth is I’ve had my suspicions about a few things lately. Suspicions that have led me to consider something so horrible, so unthinkable that I have to have a glass of wine to calm my frazzled nerves.
Because I think...
I am getting old.
I am becoming a ma'am.
For instance, I’m pretty sure that a pair of jeans I just bought are… (oh shit just say it!) mom jeans.
Sniff sniff.
As for my other clothes I find that I’ve come to prefer comfort over style. Sure I still want to be stylish but it’s somehow not as important as it used to be. If it’s not comfortable, able to be machine washed, or stain resistant you probably won’t find me wearing it.
If you speed by me and my daughter in the parking lot you’ll feel my wrath (well you probably won’t because your going too fast to see my glare and your music’s too loud to hear my yell.)
Let’s see what else.
I don’t ‘understand’ or like the music that kids listen to and when they swear around me I’m offended (I won’t go into it but this makes me a huge hypocrite).
My husband and I have conversations about things like wills, life insurance policies, retirement plans. It’s practical sure, but it’s also…old people topics.
I’m concerned AND interested in things like probiotics, sunscreen, composting and VOC’s.
I’m too tired for sex most nights.
And…perhaps worse of all.
The other day my husband and I were walking through a store and as we passed the women's lingerie section my husband said, “Oh look! They do still make sexy underwear.”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
But I don’t think I can accept all the blame; though I am the only one who can conquer it*.
*It=ma’amness
I think my daughter is responsible for a lot of this. And my husband, cause if it wasn’t for his functioning sperm and his complete support in me being a SAHM. Then maybe…
Anyways.
I know neither one of them did this on purpose. My daughter has no idea that I’m a ma’am; to her I’m only mama. And my husband gave me the greatest gift of my life; even if he does make snide comments about my panties and sweat pants lifestyle.
So though I am going to fight this ma’am thing a little bit longer I’m okay with where I am in life. I’m not going to start wearing miniskirts, Britney Spears t-shirts, and dying my hair blond. I won’t go out and buy the latest crappy music. And I will not start watching The Hills so that I know who all these kids on the cover of the magazines are.
But I think I will dig out some of my hibernating sexy underwear. And maybe I’ll even put them on for a second or two after my daughter goes to bed.
Take THAT ma’amness!

“Uh…hello…my name--“
“We can’t hear you!”
“ Speak up!”
“Oh…sorry.” Nervous throat clearing. “ Okay, my name is Jamie. I’m a stay at home mom to a 22 month old daughter. I’m new to this whole blogging thing--“
“Boring!”
“Hey…what’s on your shirt?”
“What’s on it? Oh, jeez.” Embarrassed laughter. “Who knows? My shirts now doubles as a rag, towel, and Kleenex. This could be chewed up food, snot, spit, who knows. The point is I still wear this shirt out into public.” Voice raises a couple octaves. “Do you understand what I’m saying? In public I use my own shirt to wipe my daughter’s mouth, nose, hands, whatever. AND THEN I KEEP WEARING IT! I grocery shop in it, I go to the park, I even go out to dinner in it.”
“Well then, maybe you should take it off. He he.”
“Take my shirt off? TAKE MY SHIRT OFF! Is that what you said? Okay fine! Here I go taking off my shirt.”
“Ahhhhh! My eyes!”
“Oh God! What happened?”
“What happened? What happened is breastfeeding! That’s what happened. Twenty-two months of nursing. Twenty-two months of sucking, biting, pinching, one round of mastitis and three plugged ducts.”
“But they're so…odd shaped.”
“And what’s the word? Droopy? Flaccid? Saggy?”
“Shut up! I know what my tits look like! I see them every day. But no one told me! No one told me what would happen to them. The areola's, the red nipples, the stretch marks, the veins! I know that after my daughter is done demanding access to my boobs 24/7 they are going to be saggy, stretched out pendulums. I know all this.” Whispering now. “And yet I can’t quite accept it. Not yet.”
Wearily collapse into chair.
“Oh Jesus! She has two bodies. One when she’s standing and one when she’s sitting.”
“What…what happened to your stomach?”
“I had a baby you moron! A nine and a half pound baby. A baby so big she couldn’t get out of my vagina so I had to have a c-section. So now I have two bodies. Now when I sit or lay down I have a muffin top. And look, when I squeeze the skin together on my stomach it looks like a baked potato that’s been left in the microwave too long.”
“Oh God. How is it possible?”
“Why…why don’t you put your dirty shirt back on? Please.”
“I don’t want to be rude but you look really tired; dark circles under your eyes, kind of pale. Are you getting enough rest?”
“Ha! Rest, what’s that? I haven’t gotten enough rest since I was six months pregnant.”
“Maybe you should take a nice bath. Listen to some relaxing music.”
“I don’t think the Wiggles make relaxing music. Plus if my daughter knows I’m doing something as enjoyable as taking a bath she’ll want in on it. She’ll bang at the door and scream for me until I let her in. And if her daddy takes her out of the house and I take a bath I’ll spend the whole time feeling guilty because I’m so glad to finally be alone. Either way I won’t enjoy my bath.”
“Is that your daughter smacking you in the face?”
“Yes, I’m not paying enough attention to her.”
“Did…did she just spit on you?”
“Yea.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“What am I going to do about it? Well…I guess I could tell her nicely not to do that, but she only does it more when I do that. I could raise my voice and look sternly at her and tell her “No!” but that makes her laugh. Or I could give her a time out but she seems to enjoy those. So…I’m going to do…nothing. That’s what I’m going to do for now.”
“So you’re a stay at home mom you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Your house is kind of messy. Don’t you clean? I mean, you’re home all day anyways. And you only have one kid. How hard can it be to clean up after her?”
Heart rate speeds up.
“Yea, asshole I clean. How about you give it a try, see how it goes? Here’s the vacuum. And you, here’s the clean clothes that need to be put away. Have at it.”
Sit down with a smirk on face.
“Hey! Stop it! Don’t do that!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your daughter keeps throwing her toys in front of the vacuum. Oh shit! Look I just sucked up the string to her toy. I think the vacuum belt broke.”
“Don’t worry. I buy them in bulk now. This is the third one I’ve had to replace in six months. Have you got the clothes put away yet?”
“No. Your daughter keeps pushing the hamper away and throwing the clothes around. And it seems like for every item I hang up she pulls two down from her closet.”
“What, you’re not faster than a 22 month old? You better get faster because there’s a whole load of clothes in the dryer that need to be put away too.”
“Stop it! Look your daughter just ground her sweet potato fry into the carpet with her foot! And she keeps asking for bell pepper only to chew it up and then spit it all over the floor.”
“Don’t worry about it. There are dishes to be done. Are the clothes away yet?”
“Most…some…a few.”
“Hey! Your daughter won’t let me do the dishes. She keeps getting in between me and the cabinets and pushing me away from the sink. And she keeps grabbing the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher.”
“She’s only a little girl. Are you telling me doing the dishes is difficult, if not impossible, when she does that?”
“Yea!”
“Well why don’t you go clean the car?”
“Oh, great. That should be easy.”
“You forgot something.”
“What?”
“My daughter. When I vacuum the car she wants me to hold her. So, here you go.”
“Oh…okay. Wow! Look at this car. Have you ever cleaned it?”
“At least once a week. You see how there’s enough food in the back to feed a starving kid in Africa for a week? That’s only from the trip we took to the park yesterday. We were in the car for half an hour.”
“Okay. I’m done. Though my arm’s killing me from holding her while vacuuming.”
“Get over it. Are the clothes done yet?”
“NO! There not done yet! I have to go. All I want to do is lie down in front of the TV with a beer and relax for a couple minutes without someone throwing chewed up food or wooden blocks at me.”
“Yea, I want to take a hot shower and wash all this chewed up cheese off of me. I smell gross.”
“You’re leaving already? But you haven’t watched my daughter practice jumping for ten minutes. And you haven’t helped her collect rocks for an hour. And…”
“No, we’re out of here. But we do have one question. Do you regret becoming a mom?”
“Hell no! My daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s wonderful, and crazy, and beautiful, and annoying, and hilarious, and frustrating, and sweet, and…perfect.”
“She is pretty cute.”
“Damn straight she is.”
“Look, she just threw the phone at your cat’s head.”
“Yep.”