Yesterday we took the kids to the park in the early evening for some fun and exercise. We all had a great time.
At home, I went into the kitchen and took off my sneakers, and looked at them, horrified....and thought of a friend of mine that I used to work with 20 years ago.
She was one of those naturally pretty, thin girls who was always put together. She was also so genuinely nice that everyone just had to love her. At the time, I was young, carefree and single (though I met my husband at the same company, and we had started to drift together).
I was not quite so put together as she was, even in my single days. I was always a bit rumpled, as I truly HATE to iron, and my crazy, unruly curls were always all over the place (though I did try to pull them back and out of my face, to no avail most days). Often, the hem of my skirt was hanging down, and I would correct it with a stapler and a black magic marker.
Fast forward about five years. I was at a new company. Although still single, I was now engaged to my husband. She was married to her childhood sweetheart and had two children. I hadn't seen her in as many years when she called me out of the blue, and we made plans to go to lunch.
We met outside a cafe in Brooklyn. She was with her two daughters, four and two. Both girls were immaculate and dressed to the nines, with coordinating outfits, fancy sneakers, and designer clothes. Their hair was impeccably done, with coordinating ribbons and bows. My friend, on the other hand, was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and nondescript pants. Her hair was pulled back as an after-thought. She was still thin and naturally pretty, though she wore not a stitch of makeup, not even lip gloss. She looked exhausted.
I am not mocking her by any means. It wasn't her appearance that actually struck me as odd - it was the stark difference between her appearance and her children's appearances. Particularly since this was out of character for her. Frankly, had they all been in sweats and lopsided ponytails, I would have chalked it up to Motherhood and never given it another thought.
While dishing about our lives, she made the following comment that has stuck with me all of these years: "Oh as long as my kids look good, I don't care what I look like. I'll just throw some old, baggy clothes on when we go out. But my girls? They always look good." Interesting. I nodded and then continued to enjoy our day together. I mentioned it in passing to my now-husband, then didn't give it another thought.
Until last night. When I took off my sneakers and realized that I had put two completely different shoes on. Different colors. I reached up and felt for my two braids, which were secured by bands that were two completely different colors, neither of which matched my shirt. Oh, and I was wearing a mock turtleneck. In June.
My children, on the other hand, looked like they stepped out of a children's clothing catalogue. My little models were all scrubbed clean, wearing their very best play clothes. (I should mention here that the older boys all dressed themselves.) The two babies wore coordinated sweat suits: Princess's was white with pink hearts, with a matching pink ribbon holding her soft, moisturized curls back in a Cinderella-esque style, while Little Mister's outfit was burgundy with white stripes, his ringlets golden in the fading light of the setting sun.
The lightbulb went on. I got it. I put my mismatched shoes down on the shoerack and headed towards the refrigerator to whip up a late dinner for my happy, contented family, humming to myself and reflecting on our wonderful day together.
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