Recently, I took the subway to meet a friend for lunch in Manhattan. A couple of stops later, a woman wearing slouchy cargo pants, athletic sandals and a messy ponytail wrestled her double stroller onto the train car. She lost her footing as the train started to move, leaving behind a trail of snacks as she stumbled towards the rear of the car. “Poor thing,” I thought to myself as I looked down at my own 16-month-old daughter who sat quietly strapped to my chest in a carrier.
I got off the train and crept cautiously towards my destination, trying to avoid a midday Midtown tumble. That’s when it dawned on me: I wasn’t any better off than that woman on the subway. In fact, I was much worse. I’d sooner break my back (and possibly my ankles) carrying a 20-pound toddler around the city while wearing a pair of wedge sandals than admit that a stroller and flats would have been much more practical.
Before I became a card-carrying member of the mommy club, I did have some preconceived notions about this mysterious species. Most of them were centered on my own mother–a wonderfully loving and supportive woman who unfortunately has a pair of colorful Crocs for every occasion. She does her best to keep up with the trends, but alas, her coolest days are definitely behind her. She made me believe that sacrificing your sense of style for the sake of your children was just an unfortunate part of the job–a part that I’ve been dreading since I gave birth.
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore my little girl, but I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that part of me is a little freaked out about losing myself as I make the transition from a carefree single to a responsible mom. When I look in the mirror, I see the same girl who used to know all of the city’s happy hour hot spots. Then, I look a little closer and discover the incessantly tired shell of myself with more gray hairs than I can count (I actually found one in my eyebrow the other day!). To make matters worse, I often catch myself doing mom-like things like grocery shopping at 9am and uttering things like “Eat your vegetables!” It’s as if one day I woke up and became a coupon-clipping, muffin-baking woman who barely knows any of the latest songs on the radio, but can sing all of the lyrics to the Yo Gabba Gabba! theme song. At this rate, could mom jeans be far behind?
I’m trying to come to grips with the fact that people now ask me for recipes rather than trendy restaurant recommendations, but I’d like to think that a part of me is still hip (do people still say “hip?”). I’m determined to discover the middle ground where fashionable and functional clothing meet. Even though the grocery store and baby music class are the most exciting places on my itinerary these days, I won’t leave home without a little mascara and blush. It’s just my way of reminding myself that somewhere, under those tired eyes and gray hairs, I’ve still got it.
