Just the other day, my daughter told me that my panties were “so big and beautiful, like a princess!” I was unsure which Disney classic features Princesses in large parachute style panties, so I tried to focus on the “beautiful” and ignore the “big.” Considering the possibility that my briefs could legitimately fit her as a shirt, “big” was probably an appropriate adjective. I’d like to say that this was the first time my kids have made me feel like less than the young, hip and svelte Mom I know I am, but they rock the backhanded compliment like it’s their job. Kids have such a special way with words that far too often ends with me sob-eating Rice-Crispy bars in my closet.
“I like your yellow shirt. It makes you look like a minion.”
Listen kid, I know that you’re just pulling from what you know and what matters in your toddler world, but I can’t help but feel the burn of being compared to a babbling turd-shaped dweeb dressed in overalls. I’d like to think I’m still rocking some sweet lady curves, but realistically my figure may have shifted from “hourglass” to “tic-tac” after birthing twins and a singleton, making the minion reference more accurate than I’d like to admit. Since you love minions, and probably think the idea of having one as your Mother is fantastic, I’m going to try my hardest to take this as a compliment.
“I love snuggling with you; Your belly is so squishy!”
Nothing melts my heart more than my littles wanting to snuggle, but I’ll take those snuggles without the running commentary on my less than firm midsection. I’m well aware that your former house, that stretched to capacity while simultaneously providing free rent for you and your twin brother, looks a bit like a deflated balloon. Or chewed bubble gum, or any number of unflattering comparisons that might pop into your filter-less brain. Just snuggle up and be quiet so I can pretend that you’re actually saying “you had twins and another?! Three kids?! You look fantastic!.“
“When will I grow lots of hair on my arms like you?”
So I wasn’t ever self-conscious about my arm hair…until now. I would have been slightly less traumatized had the follow up question not been, “do you brush it, Mommy?”
Do I really have a lot of arm hair? Is it too dark? Are arm cornrows the way to go? Should I wax it? Maybe I’ll get electrolysis, or maybe I’ll just wear long sleeves the rest of my life. OH MY GOODNESS a three-year-old just made me spiral so hard that I purchased a laser hair removal package on Groupon.
“I want to wear my hair all lumpy, like yours.”
I‘m not the most manicured or put together Mom. I might not always be the cool Mom, wearing “clean clothes” or “real pants,” but I’d like to think I am on the cusp of emerging fashion trends when it comes to the “messy Mom bun.” Critics might argue “you should at least brush it first,” or “one lump would be plenty,” but that really takes the “messy” out of it, now doesn’t it? Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but if my daughter is admiring my hair lumps, I’m going to say I’m doing something right.
“Why you got those lines on your face?”
It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always a sleep-deprived, legging-wearing, messy bun-sporting, minivan-driving, child-rearing referee. That’s the stuff wrinkles are made of, so I’ve likely acquired a few. Botox isn’t a part of my Mom-life beauty regiment, which mostly just involves scrubbing my face with a baby wipe once a day and a quick prayer to whichever Saint protects from pimples. Wrinkles happen, but so do first steps, first words, and the first unsolicited hug and “I love you.” For those moments, I’d wear a million wrinkles. Ok, maybe not a million, but if that’s the case, I can always reevaluate Botox.