|No one knows this is what I've escaped!|
On the subway platform, I felt oddly vulnerable, almost naked.
You see, up until recently, I was with Henry wherever I went. Henry in the carrier. Henry in the stroller. Henry in the stroller and Hudson peeing on the curb. Henry screaming as I pried his little fingers gently from the door to the playground swings.
I imagined people viewed the specter of my disheveled, frumpy, makeup-less facade with sympathy (if not always empathy):
Look at her, she's the mom of a toddler! No wonder she's such a mess. And by the look of all that dog hair on her black yoga pants (in need of a hem, incredibly), she probably has a neurotic corgi shedding-machine at home, too!
With Henry I can smile that wan, weary mom-smile. Other moms return the knowing glance.
But alone? Alone I have no excuse. No one knows I narrowly dodged gooey pesto fingers and a mad barking fur ball on my way out the door. No one knows I had to sprint to the subway to arrive only 15 minutes late to the salon.
Alone I'm not a mom -- just a mess.
I'm a mom! To a toddler! I wanted to scream to my unsuspecting fellow straphangers. At least I don't have a huge rip in the crotch of my jeans this time!
Desperation is unattractive, isn't it?
I'm the only one who cares, of course, and if I care so much, why don't I throw on some mascara once in a while, right?
Cut me some slack, I want to say to everyone in the world.
Truthfully, though, the only person who needs to hear that is... me.
Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici / FreeDigitalPhotos.net