On Black Leggings and Comfort
I know that leggings are not pants and I don't care. Not even in the slightest. I get that it breaks all sorts of fashion laws — and laws of physics, in some cases — to wear black leggings as an unofficial uniform. But we moms do it anyway. Why?
Comfort. You cannot underestimate the power of comfort. I'd say for "ease" as well, but let's be frank. It takes exactly the same amount of time and effort to put on jeans or any other leg-attire as it does leggings. So it only boils down to comfort.
Try this day on for size, and tell me what rises to the top of your priority list:
Rise before the sun, but not to the sound of a gentle alarm like that one with church bells, nor to the chatter of birds chirping outside your window, nor even by the stirring of your natural internal clock. No, you wake up to the sounds of desperate screams, crying and calls for, "Mama? MAMA!" blasting through a monitor (read: loudspeaker) next to your ear.
You startle, confused and a bit angry at the unidentified sleep intruder. Pausing to remember who you are, where you are and why you are responding to a little voice crying for its mama, you regain your bearings and strap on the mom mental riot gear that gets us through each day.
Your creaky no-longer-functioning-post-pregnancy-and-birth joints buckle as you place one, then both feet on the floor, rubbing your eyes. Then you're off.
Scooping up your precious little human, you forget the resentment you felt mere seconds ago as her little arms wrap around your neck, scratching your hair, and burying her little head in a nuzzle. She wraps her legs around you, launching in to a stream of endless babble delivered with a tone of importance no less serious than the POTUS's State of the Union delivery, but including words like, "NANA!" or "MELMO!". You clutch her tight, soaking in this moment as you hobble down the stairs and into the kitchen. Then you realize that her loving embrace is not the only thing you're soaking up. Her nighttime diaper is in on the fun.
You change her and set her down on the couch with the (ba)"NANA!" she's been squawking for, along with a bottle of milk, then go fumble to heat water and grind beans for the french press.
"Uh oh!" She says, as she shakes her bottle back and forth watching the milk fly all over your $2,000 Crate and Barrel couch. Why the hell did you ever buy a $2,000 Crate and Barrel couch in the first place? Oh right, because you didn't know you were pregnant and thought it was time for "adult furniture" (sounds porn-ier than it is).
Sinking into the couch next to her, you settle in for another morning snuggle moment, but this time caffeinated with mug in hand. Something squishes against your pant leg. It's a chunk of the (ba)"NANA!" she's dropped, which now covers your leg and ass with a snot-like, sticky fruit smear. The $2,000 couch is rocking its fair share of the snotinschmear, too. Life is so awesome, and you haven't even been up for an hour.
... and so the day goes.
So I opt for black leggings. Because not only do I have 9 pairs of them, making changing my pants three times a day a cinch (I thought I would only have to change her pants multiple times a day, but no, it's like Buckingham Palace changing of the pants around here). I need to be comfortable in those in-between moments. It's only fair. It's only right to give me that one little indulgence in a world full of regurgitated food and bodily fluids, neither of which are mine, yet both of which cover my defenseless body.
I'm sorry that I leave the house like that and that you have to see me in my... Wait, no I'm not. I'm not sorry at all. Refer to everything I've said up until this point and give me a goddamned break.
I give the moms who look totally adorable on the playground so many props — to infinity! — and sometimes even indulge myself in a little sadomasochistic comparison. "Look," I think to myself. "Her outfit is adorable, but still simple and comfortable. She looks put together and not like her child stuck her into an electrical outlet. Can't we give it a try?"
Some days, comparison shaming works and I catch enough motivation to raise a mascara brush to my eyes and put on something cute. And I admit, those days feel pretty good.
But those days. Oh, as those days draw to a sweet close, when the World's Cutest Human has gone to bed and I am officially 'off duty,' there is no better feeling than changing right back into my black leggings and calling it a day.