By: Harmony Hobbs
A few months ago, we moved from Birmingham back to our hometown in South Louisiana. I was originally planning to write about moving with small children and how mind-numbingly exhausting it is, but it seems I’ve coped with that experience by trying to forget most of it. I don’t wish to relive it. So … let’s not.
We spent the summer settling in, and then my oldest started preschool. He’s in a five-day-per-week program. He’s going to learn Spanish. I decided if we’re going to do this preschool thing, we’re going to DO IT. Full on. That’s completa, in Spanish.
Everything is going well. My son makes friends easily and we don’t worry about him too much, really. I mean, it’s preschool. I’m trying to be relaxed.
This may be the source of my problem. Me. My relaxation. You see, my son is well-adjusted and blends right in with his peers. He is a normal-looking child. He has a super hero backpack and velcro sneakers. There is nothing odd going on with him, knock on wood.
It’s ME. I am the one who doesn’t fit in.
I came to this realization on the first day of school, when we showed up a little early and had to wait in the hallway for a few minutes. I noticed the other moms who were milling around and every one of them was dressed appropriately. They had on khaki capris or crisp shorts, button down oxford shirts or polos, and tasteful jewelry. They were very Ralph Lauren. It’s not like they looked like they were going to WORK afterwards, or some such. It looked like they were meeting some other classy women for a classy brunch. With classy music playing.
I looked down at the lycra workout gear that I was wearing not because I was going to work out later, but because it was comfortable, and realized I looked out of place. I looked like I was about to go clean the classy women’s houses. And it’s not like I looked out of place because I looked poorer, exactly. More like I didn’t look adult enough to have a child in a respectable preschool. At all.
Since then, I’ve been working on my “mom look.” I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. This week I picked up my kid wearing a neon tank top from Target and showing too much boob (again, with the workout clothes) and texted my husband that I looked like a total whore next to the other moms. I am SURE they hate me, I said. Or they think I’m the babysitter. The slutty one. Not the nice one. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! Why can I not get the hang of this?? Also, why am I so insecure? My kid is the one going to school, not me!
He laughed and didn’t seem to quite understand what I was getting at, so I snapped a picture of my chest and sent it to him. Visual proof that yes, his wife looked like a whore. For some reason, he couldn’t stay focused on the issue at hand after that and nothing was resolved.
This week, in an attempt to look more respectable, I wore a maxi dress made of a jersey knit when I took my son to school. I felt I looked more appropriate than usual and I gave myself a little pat on the back. Unfortunately, he freaked out when I tried to say bye … and got wrapped up and tangled in my dress and yanked it in directions it wasn’t supposed to go. And so, it seems no matter what I’m wearing, we’re going to make some kind of scene and therefore never fit in.
Fast-forward a week or so. I’m with my mother. I’m flipping through the photos on my cell phone, showing her pictures of the kids playing, and … BAM! There’s that picture of my boobs.
Clearly, there is work to be done. And I don’t just mean on my chest.
About Harmony:
Harmony recently quit her job to stay at home with her two boys. Her sanity is in question. Visit her blog at Modern Mommy Madness.
