“Mommy, why are you putting on makeup?” she asks me, eyes wide.
I am finally getting to me. Everyone else clothed, fed, washed. I decide to put on some mascara in an effort to make an effort. Or maybe it’s because the mom I will see when I drop off Kendall at her playdate is 10 years younger than me.
Through the mirror, I see that Brooklyn is still happily playing with the plastic top from my mousse and some other random blocks/toys I sprawled on the bathroom floor. Please don’t hit your head on the tile. But I let her play because I know I should.
The question is still there, hanging…waiting for an answer. She asks me again, although I have not forgotten.
“Mom-meeeee, why are you putting on makeup?”
I wonder why parenting has to be so hard. Such a simple question, yet it has my head spinning. I want to be honest, yet carefully word the answer so that an impressionable young female heart isn’t given the wrong message.
Why AM I putting on makeup? I guess it is a good question after all.
I muster up an answer that I am sure is all sorts of wrong, but it’s all I got: “Because it makes Mommy feel good. I don’t have to put it on. I just I want to.”
It seems to appease her, and she disappears into my closet. I continue applying the mascara, now annoyed that they can’t seem to design a brush that will actually separate my lashes without clumps.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
“Look, Mommy!” she giggles. One of her famous shoe fashion shows. Today, she’s chosen the camel booties that I bought 8 years ago — pre-kids and when I worked full time and spent way too much money at Ann Taylor and Nordstrom. I’m still not sure if they will “pass” this season as booties, or if they will look like I am trying too hard and missed.
She shuffles past Brooklyn, who I now see has opened a tampon and is sucking on it. I take it away. Kendall disappears back into the closet.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Now, it’s the purple boots my Mom bought me 5 years ago when I wanted something that made me feel like I wasn’t a Mom. Not that I don’t loving being a Mom. I just don’t want to necessarily look like a Mom. Well, I guess I just want to look like a trendy Mom. Or maybe I just don’t want to look old.
Emma now enters the bathroom and asks me for the millionth time if it’s time for her play date. I instantly feel guilty that I forgot she was home. Then I feel guilty that I am dropping her off at a play date when she has the day off. And then I feel guilty that Kendall also has a play date on the same day. I didn’t it really plan it that way. It just happened. I hosted the last two here, but I still feel bad. They are both beyond excited, which only makes me feel a little better.
The Mommy clock is ticking, and I’m starting to lose them. Brooklyn is trying to army crawl to me — Please, please don’t hit your head — and Kendall is whining about snack. I reach for my cell phone, which is now my watch, and see that I’ve spent a whopping 15 minutes getting ready yet I’ve only managed makeup and clean teeth.
I look in the mirror, grimace at my hair, and throw it into a ponytail, deciding that I can get away with it because of the mascara.
But then I put on some over-sized earrings and grab my riding boots, just in case.
