This is simply a tale of caution to let you know that your personal paparazzi can pop up anywhere, at anytime.
The tiny one has an ear infection that started last week. He had been waking up multiple times during the night for about a week. It hit its peak Thursday evening and he could not sleep at all. I held, sang, cuddled, and fed him most of the night. I have no complaints about that evening, but I was a walking disaster the next day. He was a crawling disaster and needed extra love. I brushed my teeth and washed my face with him clinging to my leg and sobbing. This repeated when I needed to get dressed. I grabbed shorts off the floor and the first top I could reach. I debated skipping changing my underwear, but thought that I should have a small amount of personal pride. I put on mascara for my post pictures and called it a day. I did not brush my hair and was pale as a ghost. I did not care. I felt proud of the small achievement of the updated underpants.
Patrick came home and the tiny one was adorable and charming. He may have thought I faked the sobbing and clinging. We decided to go get frozen yogurt because it was a lovely evening. I looked like a transient and was fine with it. Just get me sugar and out of this house! I was excited to try out my new Ergo carrier too. (It is awesome, by the way.) Yogurt was a success, the weather was a success, the ambiance of South Pasadena is always a success. My appearance, not so much, but who would know? My husband snaps a picture of our son’s cuteness and posts it to Facebook. I scream that I am supposed to be knowledgeable about fashion and beauty and in one snap, my street cred is gone. I am pale, smelly, have visible roots (isn’t it called ombre when you brush your hair?), horrible outfit, and the angle makes me look a good 10 pounds bigger. I threatened to post my nudie of him holding the tiny one, but got paranoid about being arrested for child pornography.
The moral of the story? While I appreciate the fact that my husband finds me attractive at my worst, take the time to feel good. 5 more minutes to bronze my cheeks, brush my hair, and put together a decent outfit would have made for a picture worth posting, and quite frankly, pulling myself together physically keeps me pulled together emotionally when I am bone weary. Patrick, I challenge you to a retake this weekend. Bring it.
Please post the horrid picture.
Absolutely not, but I will text it to you.