I'm Not Just Mom

I’ve lived my life since adolescence in heels. My personal motto: The higher the heel, the closer to God. But now that I have twins in tow, I fear flats are (silently, clicklessly) sneaking up behind me. I want to give in, really I do, but I just can’t give a few meddling moms the satisfaction. Their disapproving stares are egging me on and I’m clever enough to recognize the judgment peering from beyond those thin veils of admiration. When they say, “I don’t know how you do it” what they mean is, “You shouldn’t do it.”

Pre-pregnancy, I spent every waking moment in heels. I could run in them, jump in them and, by golly, even climb a mountain in them. They added height, elongated my legs and allowed my ass to defy gravity. To me, heels are heavenly and flats can go to hell.

While I was knocked up I would explain to naysayers that I walked more easily in heels (true), that my back hurt when I wore flats (also true), and that I never tripped while I was in heels (not entirely true). By my 8th month I moved on to wedges which gave me height with balance. At least I thought so until I fell on the sidewalk and cracked my head open. One ambulance ride, one panicked husband, seven stitches, 1,347 tears and 4 hours of fetal monitoring later, I conceded and bought a pair of leopard print flats. I even wore them a time or two, that is when I got the nerve to walk. It wasn’t shoes I distrusted, it was gravity.

And then came the “I told you so” comments ad nauseum. Had the “hell on heels” remarks been made in the form of advice instead of admonishment, maybe I would’ve been more apt to listen. I am, after all, nothing if not an eternal brat. Still, shouldn’t we be lifting each other up (like a lovely pair of Brian Atwoods) rather than stomping each other into the ground? Am I a bad mother because I refuse to wear deflated footwear? Really? I mean, really? To all of you other mothers, I’m sure this is the first of many mistakes I’ll make, so settle in, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show.

So here I sit, a new mom, wedged uncomfortably between the Devil and the deep blue sea. I gave in and added a pair of retro Converse low tops to my collection but they haven’t seen much action. The first time I wore them Husband said I looked dorky and minutes later I stepped in dog poo. (Coincidence? I think not.) Maybe it’s just for spite, but I’m off to the park with my two wee beasties…and two of the highest heels I can find.

Momzillas, please mind your own beeswax and stop the bullying. Mom-on-mom crime is never the answer.

1 Heidi + 1 Spencer = 2 gross

Keep ‘em to yourself, people. Here’s how:

1) Purell like hell.
2) Wash your hands. And sing a catchy little ditty while doing so (see below).
3) Don’t share utensils, don’t kiss, don’t spray it when you say it.
4) If you sneeze or cough, cover your mouth/nose/face with the inside of your elbow and not your hand unless you immediately follow said sneeze or cough with 1 or 2 above.
4) Su casa es su casa. Stay home and under house arrest until your fever says “Adios.”
5) Make sure everyone in your household gets a flu shot. Yes, it stings, but a sticker and a lolly will make it all better.

• My healthy, silly, perfect goofball twins (a.k.a. “The Dings”).
• Black leggings, green rainboots and a pilly, stretched out hooded oatmeal sweater
• Classic Christmas carols on XM4
• Venti non-fat lattes
• Snuggly middle-aged pets who greet The Dings every morning with slobbery Scooby Doo style kisses
• Love, Actually
• Lifelong friends who know me so (too) well
• My new Kindle for Hanukkah
• My gorgeous husband who, after 9 years, still makes me laugh so hard I pee
• Babies who sleep through the night

So I let the twinlets try a taste – and I mean only a taste – of frozen yogurt over the weekend.

1pm: Fro Yo Party.
Girl Child definitely has a sweet tooth. Boy Child is much more interested in the shenanigans and goings on of the birthday party we’re gracing with our presents presence.

7pm: Bath time.
Girl Child has a rash under her chin, on her cheeks and across her teeny tiny torso. She’s cooing up a storm and feeling fine so I chock it up to a heat rash thanks to temperamental Atlanta weather (30s in the morning, high 70s in the afternoon) and a mom who is keen on layering.

7:07pm: Google.
Mom is searching “pimply red rash” faster than a co-ed college freshman.

Who knew strawberries were a potential allergen to infants? Everyone but me? Right.

Heat rash is, indeed, the likely culprit since said yogurt was made from processed strawberries and not topped with (toxic) fresh ones.

7:25: Bed time.
Dad rolls his eyes at Mom, Mom breathes a sigh of relief and secretly considers replacing one layer of clothing with one sheet of bubble wrap.

Here’s to plain yogurt, safe babies and sane moms.