I'm having a minor identity crisis. In the grand scheme of things, it's not so huge. But in the personal scheme of things, it's bigger than my hair on a humid day. And that, people, is saying something. On a humid day (or, as we call them in the Baltimore-Washington Metro region, "a day that ends in 'y'"), my shadow looks like a dandelion that's gone to seed. Okay, fine, if you want to get technical, my body isn't exacly stem-shaped. So, it'd be more like a potato that happens to have been genetically spliced with a dandelion head. A Dande-tato, if you will.
But I digress.
Today, after I dropped the Boy off at daycare, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic before pealing away from the curb. I am a careful driver, after all (quiet, Hubby). Okay, fine, I didn't look in the rearview for saftey reasons alone. Each morning I give the eight inches of myself that I can see in that sliver of a mirror -- the space between my eyebrows and my collar bones -- the once-over. Usually, I'm looking for out-of-control eyebrow hairs or errant streaks of mascara. Little things I can fix en route to the office. But what did I see this morning?
Magenta crayon. Streaks and scribbles all over the collar of my very white denim jacket. The accidental Jackson Pollack homage isn't a fashion statement on my part. Oh no. THESE marks are the artistic expression of a stubborn almost-two-year-old who insisted on clutching his collection of "crays" during the five-minute drive to daycare. Somehow, between buckling and unbuckling his eleventy-seven car seat safety straps, he tagged me.
Why is this causing an identity crisis? Because I DIDN'T NOTICE IT UNTIL I LOOKED IN A MIRROR. I have always prided myself in being aware of things happening in my periphery. But I didn't even catch it when I became graffiti canvas for a toddler. What is happening to my powers of perception? What if I hadn't looked in the mirror? I don't care about the jacket. It was a T.J. Maxx special and El Boyo used washable crayons anyway, so it's not like a precious piece of Prada was sacrified here. But criminy, what's next? Socks hanging out of my pocket? Buttery handprints on my skirt? Milky kiss prints on my cheek?
The mature earth mother in me recognizes these things as badges of parenting honor.
But the teenager from my past, the one who earned her pocket change through babysitting, and who wondered how some of the mothers could walk out of the house with that loose barrette or those jeans with the mustard stain, the one who resolved to always look put together nicely, and, barring that, clean... Well, she's having an interesting time recognizing that she's tumbling over to the other side of the fence. Oof. Well, at least my fall was cushioned by some very cute plush animals.
Okay, I feel a little better. Now, where's that stain stick?
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