For Future Me, Who Is Down On Herself

I'm gonna give you a fair warning, reader friend. This post is not going to be for everyone. Particularly not for many of the male persuasion. It's a fairly normal type of post for me but I will be including a story or two that might make the men folk a little uneasy.

So just know, this is your time to consider whether you want to continue on. If words like "hot flashes", "bras", "PMS", or "feelings" make you uncomfortable, then you just need to mosey on back to the man cave from whence you crawled out of during commercial breaks for Sportscenter. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Go 'head, sir. Go. 

Now. Now that it's just us girls, and maybe a straggler or two who thinks he can read of my whimsical mishap and stare me straight in the eye, allow me to continue.

I've said it before (in some form of another) on my blog, and I'll say it again.

Motherhood makes you crazy.

Yep. Hair-pullin', crazy-eyed, frantic-laughin' crazy. Most days.

Don't get me wrong. There have been some (rare) nights that I get into bed and pat myself on the back and say, "Hey YOU. You rocked this mom thing like a boss today. You deserve these 9 oreos. You are the mother of all mothers... madre supreme. Go you."

But sometimes, the crazy sneaks up on you and you never even knew it was coming. Just POW. Right in the kisser.

Take for instance my latest mishap...It was a Wednesday. A frigid, bleak, January Wednesday. The morning began just like any other...rushing to get myself dressed while packing diaper bags and making bottles and breakfast. I suppose I thought everything was on the up and up. I should have known when I started washing my hair (in the sink) with Dawn instead of Pantene that maybe I didn't have my wits about me. But hey, simple mistake, right? And on the plus side, I knew grease would be no match for my locks that day. I digress.

I somehow made it out the door and into the classroom without any problems. Patted myself on the back for that one. I even felt super cute because I was wearing a denim jacket I've owned now for well over ten years and somehow made it relevant enough to today's fashion. Vintage. Chic. Look at me go.

Anyway, I made it to school. Went to my classroom. Doodled my name on a piece of paper over and over so passerbys would think I was working some kind of fierce. Then, I stepped out into the hall and said hello to all the children. All those angel babies. Mrs. Adams was feeling fancy and fine and by golly, she was determined to spread some January cheer.

I taught class with a pep in my step. I was pretty proud of how energetic I was. I was freezing my tail off, though. I turned my own classroom thermostat up to 75 (sorry administrators) and still felt chilly. NO BOTHER, I AM SUPER TEACHER. LET US PRESS ON AND EDUCATE ALL THE CHILDREN.

I finished my last class of the morning. Still bouncing with every step. Hoo-ah. The time came for me to pump (there's one of those scary words, boys), because I was a good mother who lovingly nurtured her babe with nature's intended form of feeding... Just kidding. It's cause I can't afford formula.

Anyway, I hooked the awkward machine up. Got all the parts attached and proceeded to ready myself when I finally realized...

I forgot to put a bra on that morning.

Coldest day of the year and I was walking around an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL like...well, THAT. Fear and laughter simultaneously overtook me. What do I do first? Text all my friends and tell them about how I'm officially losing my mind because parenting is winning over me or write genuine apology cards to the 100+ parents of students I saw that morning?

Life.

And sure, that's a comical little story. No big deal, really. Probably happens to others all the time. But for me - a nursing mama - to forget something so pivotal on the coldest morning of the year? Just not the usual mishap for me. And honestly there was a moment or two where (after the initial hilarity of the situation faded) I began to allow that one mishap to remind me of all my other mishaps: the dishes from last night's meal didn't get washed...you forgot to send Jacob's blanket to school...your kid's carseat has french fries from who knows when...you spend hours away from your kids a day...etc. etc...

The self-loathing just continued to get worse.

I wish I could say I ran across some inspirational quote or had a revelation of some sort that drew me out of my pity-party, but I didn't. Only time and today's good mood have really allowed me to see the pettiness of it. But the truth is that, more than likely, in a few days I will be right back at beating myself up.

That's why I jot things like this down. It serves as a reminder to myself that those days that seem the worst end up faint memories with no damage whatsoever to my long-term mama memory. They don't trump the giggling little boy who asks me to climb into his teeny-tiny tent to spend a moment pretending we're fireman. They don't override the feeling of my youngest grinning from ear to ear when he sees me for the first time each morning or the way he burrows his head into my chest as if to say he loves me more than Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

At the end of each day, no matter what role you play in your life, it's such a good one. I promise you that. If we can look past the filters of perfection we find on social media and the nagging need to feel like we have to have it all together, I think you and I just might find that life is a lot simpler and more blissful than we allow ourselves to see it. The mistakes we make, we'll make again. And again. And again. But the giggles will keep coming, the grins will never stop, and life will go on. Simply. Blissfully.

So, Laura Leigh (or reader, if you so feel spoken to): breathe in. Forget about what you didn't do well or what the world said you should've done better. Focus on your blessings. Be gracious to yourself.



...but please...don't forget your bra.