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Mom uniform

People with important jobs wear uniforms: Police Officers, Firemen, Baristas at Starbucks, and me. According to Oprah I have the most important job in the world, and who wants to argue with her? I am a Stay-At-Home Mom. I have a uniform. The last time I wore an official uniform was on the last day...

People with important jobs wear uniforms: Police Officers, Firemen, Baristas at Starbucks, and me. According to Oprah I have the most important job in the world, and who wants to argue with her? I am a Stay-At-Home Mom. I have a uniform. The last time I wore an official uniform was on the last day of my senior year of Catholic high school. (Well, that’s not entirely true. I did wear it for my husband once.) Now, I have a uniform of a different sort. This one is not dry-cleaned and starched like the other. It’s got a more vintage/worn look to it and looks to the untrained eye like sweat pants and baggy t-shirts— it’s my Official Mom Uniform.

Uniform

Gone are the days when the first outfit I reached for matched or resembled anything resembling an outfit. Why? There’s no point. Anything nice that I own will undoubtedly end up with baby spit-up on it or perhaps a little explosive poop before the day is out. With Murphy’s Law enabled, I have a better shot of ending the day spit-up free if I stay with my Real Mom of Spit-Up County wardrobe. Even if I wanted to, the thought of trying on my old skinny jeans invokes a horror in me akin to watching Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone in Rhinestone again.
Without any thought whatsoever (because who can have a thought on such little sleep), I reach for the same clothes over and over again—sweat pants and large shirts. Sometimes I mix it up and just stay in my pajamas all day, but mostly my husband will find me in the sexiest of Old Navy sweats and oversized milk-stained t-shirts. (“My milk shakes brings ALL the boys to the yard.” Or at least, one 4-month-old one.)  With my amazing, new, not-so-put-together look, I’m surprised no one has asked me to be the guest on some sort of make-over reality show.
My nightmare consists of me awkwardly walking through the mall, pushing a stroller, holding a diaper bag, and eating a Cinnabon while large TV cameras are suddenly thrust in my face. An overly perky and impeccably dressed skinny host tells me that I’m in need of a makeover. This would be mainly due to the fact that my 4-month-old has emailed the show because my constant lack-of-fashion choice embarrasses him. I am whisked off and given a lovely Sears wardrobe that I can’t ever wear again due to the afore mentioned spit-up and poop dilemma.
So the cute outfit is a no-go for a little while.
At least until The Kid is in college.
Or Sears starts a new Vomit Proof line of Mom Wear.

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