At my MOPS (Mothers of Pre-Schoolers) meeting this week, we did a hilarious exercise during which the entire group of about 75 women stood in a circle and took turns admitting some of the crazy things we resort to as stay-home-moms. When nothing really surprised me, I realized then that I'd completed the transition from career woman to housewife. I heard everything from perpetually living out of laundry baskets in order to avoid folding and putting laundry away, to serving Bomb Pops for breakfast and popcorn for dinner, to parking the kids in front of the TV with sweets one afternoon to go get frisky with the husband upstairs. Hey-oh! But the prevailing theme in all of our admissions was a gross lack of personal hygiene. Days without showering, weeks without shaving, covering greasy roots with baby powder, wearing to bed the same clothes you woke up in that morning (and then wore all day), not realizing until 3:00 pm that your teeth haven't yet been brushed. Yes, my friends. The Domestic Arts is a very dirty business.
I can fully respect and relate to these veritable woes.
That being said, I'm a Type-A personality and one of my "things" is bodily cleanliness. It may not happen by breakfast, or sometimes even by lunch on a bad day, but come hell or high water (and sometimes both), I'm getting a full scrub and polish -- complete with lip gloss and mascara -- before much else of importance gets done. Call it vanity or what you will, but I'm incapable of feeling good unless I look my best. I will forgo food, caffeine, sleep, possibly even AIR if I must choose between any of these things and my blessed shower.
This morning was no different. And so I offer you a glimpse into the reasoning (read: madness) behind the Frumpy Housewife Syndrome and how it's so easy to fall into, and so hard to escape.
I spent a good twenty minutes this morning rocking and patting my 19-month-old to sleep for his morning nap. He normally sleeps from 10:30-12:00, and I use that time to shower and primp, do my college homework, and complete any chores that would otherwise require me to leave him unsupervised if he were awake. This is a sacred and coveted hour and a half of quiet, childless, self-indulgent ZEN. (Did you catch that, husbandfolk? Showering, doing homework, and washing laundry in peace are self-indulgent for this gal.) Were I less rigid and more go-with-the-flow, it might not be such a catastrophe when this routine gets interrupted. Especially with how often I'm forced to improvise, you'd think I'd be somewhat used to it by now. But alas, I'm a control freak, remember?
After transferring the sleeping toddler to his crib, I tiptoed to the bathroom, eased the door closed and started the water. I hurried out of my clothes, making a mental checklist of all the things I needed to accomplish in my precious ninety minutes. I stepped my left foot into the tub, and then I heard it. The shrieking, sobbing wail. Not your average discontented baby cry, but the I'm being simultaneously attacked by giant bumblebees and angry clowns cry. Without pause for thought, I whipped a towel around myself and bolted to his room. There he stood, arms outstretched, dramatically yelping, "Up! UP! UUUUPPPPP! Mama! Mamaaa!"
CRAP.
At that point, I had two choices. I could stand there and try to pat him back to sleep, or I could relinquish my 'Hour of Power', make do with my day-old hair and just let him get up. You know where this is going...
Almost thirty minutes and one numb arm later, I finally managed to pat his stubborn little bottom back into sleepy oblivion. Holding my breath on the stealthy trek from his crib back to the bathroom, I did a facepalm when I realized that the shower had been running the entire time. Perfect. The hot water was already waning when I finally got in, so I mumbled several unladylike things under my breath and frantically soaped and scrubbed. Four minutes in, I was just beginning to rinse the conditioner. And wouldn't you know it, that little bugger started screaming again. MUCH louder this time (if that's even possible).
No! This is not my life! I want a refund!
Of course there was no quick solution to be found. I was smart enough to turn the water off this time, quickly squeegied as much of the conditioner out of my hair as I could, and did a once over with the towel. I'm sure most of you know how difficult and frustrating it is trying to pull dry clothes over a wet body. In my irritation and haste, I'm surprised I didn't tear my pants seam from seam as I hopped around in that ridiculous yank-yank-shimmy-dance. My sopping, snaky hair immediately soaked my shirt and yesterday's mascara ran freakishly down to my chin. I was the misbegotten lovechild of Gene Simmons and Medusa.
Mostly dressed, still dripping, and all kinds of crazy-eyed, I bolted through the bedroom door just as his hysterics were peaking. I don't know if the sight of me helped or made things worse, because he positively lost his marbles then. I'm thinking that one traumatic event may have actually ruined nap time for the rest of his life.
I was so angry and thwarted afterward, I took a vow of silence for two hours because I was afraid of what might escape. I also forced myself to hug and kiss all over that rotten, adorable little shower spoiler. In my rational mind, I know it won't matter in ten years. It's just very difficult to remain rational in the moment. (Who said anything about control freaks being rational, anyway?)
And the point of all this is, what's the point? When you're always fighting a losing battle for a moment to bathe yourself like a normal human being, it's less wearisome sometimes to just not fight it. To throw your hair in a ponytail and simply avoid the mirror as much as possible. And if you didn't know, Rule of Motherhood #972 is this: on the day you feel so worn by the battle, so zapped of energy to face even one more day of warring for five minutes to shave your legs... on THAT day, when you give up and skip the shower, skip the homework, skip the dishes and instead sit in anticipation on the edge of the couch, waiting for the imminent cry... on that day, the baby sleeps peacefully.
So the next time you see a haggard mama at the grocery store in her sweatpants with little ones in tow, give her a knowing, encouraging smile instead of a judgmental scoff. You can bet she's doing the best she can.
