Tuesday, February 26, 2008

• red sweatpants, chapped lips and a battle for the title of Mrs. America

  Mrs. America vs. ME

   

  The walk into my first grader’s elementary school was arctic.  Temperatures resting around 5 degrees are not my preferred cup of tea.  While making our way up the sidewalk, I gave my oldest son a “talk” about gaining the courage to usher himself into the school while mom stays nice and toasty in the heated car.  The cold crunch of the snow, while adding leverage to my position, drowned out most of my words causing a Charlie Brown “wah-wah-wah” effect.  My seven year old boy, in the fashion of a soon-to-be man, tuned me out, thereby missing the familiar point of “momma rode a bus to school 45 minutes one way and it wasn’t even heated.”  I looked down at the ground, hoping to avoid the huge block of ice directly in my path.  As I did, I noticed the red sweatpants I had donned in honor of our morning traverse to school.

   

  The red sweatpants caused me to argue with myself.  “Sweat pants, huh?  The sweat pants aren’t horrible.  They go great with the cute jacket you are wearing.  Too bad the bitter wintry morning caused you to throw on the heavy duty -40 degree Marmot coat thereby defeating the “cute factor” of the sweatpant/jacket ensemble.  Too bad the sweat pants with the coat look like…well, sweatpants, purchased from Walmart.” 

   

  I ended the conversation with myself and look up just in time to see “Mrs. America” coming down the sidewalk.  The tune “Here she comes, Mrs. America” swam around in my brain.  She was wearing skinny jeans, much more appropriate than baggy sweatpants.  The jeans looked great with her fashionable high-heeled black boots.  Secretly a vindictive side of me hoped those boots were making her feet ache.  I sighed.  If the boots were causing pain, then she is either a fabulous actress or an ex-super model.  She maneuvered through the sidewalk’s obstacle course of ice and snow expertly.  Each carefully placed step left a small indentation from the snow.  My own Rocket Dog sneakers, while boasting of great comfort, gave little advantage to my goal of staying vertical on the ice.

   

  I forced my eyes away from her boots and was dismayed when I saw her hair.  Oh, for the love of all that’s good in this world, does she even have highlights?  I ogled her luscious strands.  Yes, she does.  I can see that her hair, once dirty brown, now sparkled with sunshine and light from a bottle.  A slight breeze blew my brown, non-descript highlight-less hair into my eyes.  Highlights were lost on me the moment I moved 1000+ miles away from my best friend, my hair stylist extraordinaire.  And time being a factor in my life, 45 minutes sitting in a fancy chair just for beauty from a bottle is not doable for this dowdy mom.  What mom has the time?  I made a face.  Apparently fashionable “Mrs. America” does.

   

  She passed me on the sidewalk and smiled the “Mrs. America” smile, the theme song echoing off the pine tree behind her.  My lips, chapped from the brisk walk into school, split with the effort of a smile.  I noticed she had taken the time to apply a lovely shade of shiny, musky rose lipstick.  I licked my lips, hoping to gain some relief from the peeling, cracked skin of my bottom lip.

   

  We entered the school.   I helped my oldest boy put his bag into his locker, reminding him that his snow boots were in his bag.  I was about to launch into another broken record of “when mom was a little girl she walked into school all by herself ” when he looked up at me and smiled.  He gave me a hug, ignoring the urge to “be cool at school.”  He said “thank you” and walked into his class.  I watched him go, blowing another strand of ugly brown hair out of my eyes.  A quick intake of breath and an upwards glance was needed to clear my watery eyes.  Of course, it wouldn’t be a big deal if I did cry since I’d forgotten to apply mascara this morning. 

   

  Exiting the school, I made the arctic air trek to my now cold car.  Having maneuvered the icy obstacle course earlier, I made good time and plopped myself into the driver’s seat of the car. 

   

  I paused for reflection on the morning.  Apparently not being “Mrs. America” has caused my brain to backfire.  I scolded myself.  “It’s freezing out here and you pause for reflection?  Start the engine, turn on the heated seats and crank the heat to full blast.  Then allow yourself a moment to consider the vicissitudes of life.” 

   

  Realizing I make perfect sense, I took my own advice and turned the key.  The car, becoming toasty, allows me some “thinking” time.  I know in my heart that being the perfect mom is not about how you look.   But, part of me would like to look like the woman I was in my 20’s and still have the 3 kids.  I would like to look the “hot mamma” part while successfully living the Mrs. Brady mom bit.  I wouldn’t even mind slipping on a “June Cleaver” strand of pearls while whipping up a delicious and nutritious meal that the entire family raves about.  The kids could even say, “Gee, Mom, that Mac ‘n Cheese is keen!”

   

  In the midst of my “Mrs. Not-America” dilemma, the memory of yesterday surfaced.  The family was seated at the dinner table.  There was my husband smiling at me.  He mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch.  Instead of asking him to rephrase his statement, I said, “What?  You are in love with me?  Thank you very much.”  His eyes twinkled in good humor.  “I didn’t say that.  But, it’s still true.  I am in love with you.”  Two boys echoed the sentiment.  “We love you too, Mom.”  An incoherent form of babble erupted from the 5 month old.  Apparently he agreed.  Now sitting in the car, the cold morning surrounding me, the memory made me feel warm from the inside out. 

   

  Oh well, the contest for Mrs. America will not be won by me this year.  But, “wife/mother of the Year?”  As Jeff Probst would say, that award is “back up for grabs.”  Ignoring my still chapped lips I smiled a smile that reached my eyes.  I just might have a chance.  The thought renewed my energy. 

   

  I moved my hand to put the car into gear and stopped.  Impulsively I tilted the rear view mirror downwards.  I gazed at myself for just moment before applying a “soft but bold” shade of red lipstick.  Who says you can’t have it all?

   

   

  • 9:11 AM
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