Warning: If you’re a man, this post is about make-up. Very boring and shallow, somewhat embarrassing in bits. Read at own peril.
So last Thursday, I walked into Mecca Cosmetica to procure some mascara, and came out with a tube of Kevin Aucoin, some OTT Nars blusher, Bare Minerals foundation, and a renewed determination to live up to my blog’s name and actually try and look like a Yummy Mummy.
The idea, of course, is to call so much attention to my new flawless face, that no one will pay any attention to the baby muffin top.
I have hardly worn make up since The Birth. Or maybe even some time before. The pregnancy glow did great things for my complexion, and besides… having a waist-strapped bowling bowl enter each room before your face does kinda negated the need to slap on face paint. And so I’m dreadfully out of practice. Not that I was ever great at glamming up with make up before baby, anyway.
But lately, I’ve started to notice things about myself. The care factor for personal maintenance had rapidly fallen since Arddun entered stage right, and it’s now plateaued somewhere in The Land of Shapeless Eyebrows. I no longer plan the wardrobe – it’s now whatever’s on the top of the laundry pile that doesn’t clash like fashion cymbals and doesn’t require ironing. I have three outfits at any given time, ready to be thrown on in 30 seconds flat – one for going out to the local shops, one for venturing past 10km, and one for actually living in. The last is known to Peter Alexander as Sleepwear. But in my house, it’s Whatever’s Most Comfortable to do Housework In. The fact that my pyjamas are rather funky is my only saving grace. If my winter indoor socks happen to match, it’s a bonus.
I had entered Mecca Cosmetica, looked at my face under their oh-so-bright lighting and their hide-nothing mirrors, and saw a rather dried up version of my face staring back guiltily. And thought, yes. It’s time to put the Me back into Mommy.
So it’s been a week of a stepped up skincare routine and the occasional effort at dolling up so I look Naturally Awesome. Tony has always laughed at this particular irony of make up. But I’m trying. This morning, I even found the time to dab on some highlights around the eyes and the top of my cheeks before an amble to the local shops. No mean feat, considering I was aiming to leave the house before 9:30am to meet Lisa and Jaclyn for coffee.
And so I made it. Day 6 of raised cosmetic standards. Not bad, not bad. I was starting to remember this. Slip back into the familiar. Get comfortable in my moisturised-nightly skin.
I know all about Man looking at the outward appearance, and God looking at the heart. All that’s important and true. But it felt good to be… unslothful about what little looks I have. As a small reward, I got myself some lip gloss in a colour I traditionally NEVER wear, and then swanned off with Jaclyn & Son to have lunch in style.
And then I stood up to pay at the counter.
Something was chaffing inside my bra. There it was again. It was starting to walk the fine line between discomfort and pain, and so I stole a peek to check. Nothing. But okay, this was getting seriously alarming. Did a cockroach crawl in there and suffocate or something? The mind was starting to get a little wild, but there was no hope of dashing to the bathroom quick enough…
I looked around. No one was looking at me. Of course no one was looking at me. I am no longer a nubile 20-something, I am a Mommy. Everyone looks at the baby, not the mother. Perfect. I turned to one side, reached in and – there’s no other word for this – I rummaged.
So much for glamour.
My fingers closed over an object quite foreign to any woman’s wardrobe. In her epic struggle to be returned to her pram, Arddun had apparently chucked a long, still-crisp shoestring fry down my bra. Later, I found another half piece had already worked its way down my camisole, producing an odd, oily bump just above my belly button.
French Fries in my bra. The very definition of Yummy Mummy.
Moral of the story: Real Mommies wear make up and food, and smell like flowers and spilt milk. She glows, because she’s puffed from carrying a toddler on her hip while balancing the shopping.
I think I can live with that.