In Defense of the Mom Uniform

I have never been comfortably fashionable, except for those few years at Carolina where I gleefully embraced Chapel Hill student fashions: Polo shirts, sorority t-shirts, designer jeans, ribbon belts, Rainbows, North Face, and don't forget your Longchamps tote! Yes, I was a sheep! It was the best.

Two years ago, I was still schlepping across and up town with a fresh blowout and a clean wrap dress. One year ago, I was lucky if I got a shower a couple of times a week, I discovered dry shampoo, and every outfit selection involved the following thought process: "Can I access my boobs in this? Yes? Wear it. No? Can't wear it. Also, do I have to wear pants? Ugh, I really don't want to put on pants."

Lately, I have found myself struggling daily with what to wear. I now work for a 20-month-old on the steamy Manhattan sidewalks, not in an air-conditioned office with moderately rational people, so wrap dresses are impractical in baby gym and music classes, and I no longer have to access my boobs all the time, thank goodness. Winter was a little bit easier because of jeans, but now that it's hot, what is a fashion-challenged mom to do? I have had this discussion with a few other moms and I have been reluctant about this, but it's time to face the facts.

Athleisure is where it's at. You know. T-shirts and yoga capris.

It's the shit. It's the only solution. It doesn't look great, but damn it, it's practical, it's comfortable, and you don't feel bad when your kid wipes her tater tot hands on it and then draws on you. It's why nearly every mom pushing a stroller is wearing it. Maybe she's been to the gym, maybe she's going to the gym. Who cares? She probably isn't, and I fully support her, like the sports bra she's likely wearing.

Do I do yoga in my yoga pants? Absolutely not. I wouldn't dream of it. Mostly just because I hate yoga, but if you want to do yoga in your yoga pants, you go right ahead. I am happy for you!

I tried, really I did. I tried wearing the cute things I used to wear that made me feel like a better, less sloppy person.

I tried wearing skirts and dresses. You know what happened when I wore skirts? I flashed everyone while chasing my kid, and not just when the wind would blow up the hem on the street. Or I would go to pick up the kid and her foot would catch on the hem and the skirt would come up with her. This happened every single time. It just isn't practical when you're chasing a kid on a playground, climbing on equipment with them, sitting on the floor and standing back up, sitting on the floor and standing back up, and so on and so forth for 14 hours.

I tried wearing real bras. You know what happened when I wore real bras? My kid would pull on my shirt and reveal whatever was underneath - usually going so far as to say, "BOOBIES! All gone." I am not sure why she says "all gone" when referring to my boobies. She could be talking about the long-gone milk but she could also just be talking about the boobies themselves, mere shadows of their former selves. Whatever, at least she's using word phrases.

I tried wearing cute shorts. Just kidding, I haven't tried that. If you have found cute shorts that don't ride up your ass, you have found a f*cking unicorn chupacabra and you deserve my congratulations. Tell me in the comments where you found them because I am also looking for a f*cking unicorn chupacabra. How cool/scary would that be, btw?

We have come a long way, ladies. Moms who came before me figured this out a long time ago, but not that long. I'm finally embracing this reality rather than viewing it as "letting myself go." Centuries of clothed motherhood have culminated in this very moment. The evolution of fashion has taken us from crinoline to yoga capris, from powdered wigs to high ponies. My daughter is well cared-for, and I haven't flashed anyone in the process.

If Marie Antoinette were alive today, she would first look down her nose on the modern mom uniform, and then she would say, "Sacre bleu! What was I thinking all those years? I used to hate it when little Marie Therese would wipe her chubby camembert hands all over my fancy lace skirt, and then when little Louis grabs at my wig, it is just the worst. I wish they had had yoga capris in the 1700s. But, I wish a lot of things."

Marie Antoinette with Marie Therese and Louis,
flitting about Versailles by the Temple of Love,
clearly wishing she were in yoga pants and a t-shirt.

Dear Government Leaders: We've Discovered The Key To A Successful, Peaceful Relationship With The Middle East

When it comes to gimmicky chain restaurants in America, The Cheesecake Factory is a particularly fun target of ridicule in the snooty Preston House.  The absurdity of its portion sizes is eclipsed only by the ludicrousness of its sub-par yet vast menu selections, but perhaps not by the obesity of its clientele - myself included.

Don't get me wrong.  I love a good gimmicky American chain restaurant.  I could eat every meal at On The Border, if for no other reason than the fact that once, in an effort to control the jackal inside me that just eats whatever is in front of it, I ordered the three enchilada plate, but I wanted two of those enchiladas to be wrapped up in a to-go box.  Apparently overwhelmed by my request, the waiter brought me a to-go box with three enchiladas, a plate with another three enchiladas, and an enchilada on the side.

On Saturday night we were at a party with one of our favorite new couple friends in Philly who recently moved here from the Middle East.  According to the husband, a business associate of his was also a member of a Middle Eastern royal family, and became obsessed with The Cheesecake Factory on his most recent trip to America.  He had its food shipped to him anywhere he happened to be in the world whenever he wanted it, and also had an aching desire to execute a corporate takeover of the chain.  Because.  He.  Loved it.

So many choices!  It's like the perfect American dream was wrapped up in a pie crust and tied with a bow made of fettucini alfredo.  We can choose our leaders, we can choose our paths, and we can choose between the doner kebab and the barbecued pork sandwich.

I declared my weekend successful after appreciating the image of a multi-billionaire Arab prince at The Cheesecake Factory at the local mall, surrounded by high schoolers on prom night, pregnant rednecks about to get engaged, and obese citizens on scooters and oxygen.  The prince lusts after a giant pile of coconut shrimp and jalapeno poppers, his mouth watering through laminated page after laminated page of the endless menu, trying to decide between the fish tacos, the Hungarian goulash, the sushi, the spicy Hawaiian calzone and the alligator gumbo.  Save room for the Oreo-caramel cheesecake, y'all!

This:

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Plus this:

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Equals a dichotomy of confusion and awesomeness, represented by this firework question mark:

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