All Hallow's Eve

October 31^st is by far the greatest day of the year- better than Christmas where you might feel obligated to buy people you barely know gifts, better than birthdays which inevitably are a let down; Halloween is a day dedicated to eating, drinking, being merry, and dressing up as the person you wish you could’ve been sans credentials/ money/ real life interfering. It’s awesome.

Over the years I’ve been everything from Marilyn Monroe (ended up looking like the Joker at the end of that evening), a Playboy bunny (lost more than my bunny ears that night), a “Trophy Wife” (came complete with crown and sash- pipe dream if there ever was one) and my all time personal favorite: when I was nine, I was a “harem girl” and my little sister was a unicorn and had to push me in my wheelbarrow (magic carpet) through the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, and she hasn’t let me forget it.

When I was pregnant with my son, he was a baseball- my shirt was tucked up under my super plus size utility sports bra, pregnant belly painted white with red stripes, and I worked it. When he was one, he was a lion, and I was Dorothy Gale (the one with the inappropriate skirt length and red, sequined stilettos that would’ve made the Wicked Witch of the West blush). This year, as an homage to spending Saturday mornings of my youth lying in bed watching the old black and white show with my dad, my son will be Zorro.

Now, my concern is, as a mom am I allowed to dress up as the sexier, female version of this action hero? When is my expiration date for being able to dress like a hooker on this holiday?

There are countless articles online about young girls being convinced by the media, and their friends that they need to dress far beyond their years in a sad, pathetic attempt to seek out negative attention from their peers.  Well, what about the moms? Where’s our chance to seek out this unnecessary attention from those around us? And, if we get it, is that really a bad thing?

We are in a profession (mommyhood) that requires us to be role models for our kids 24/7. We are obligated, out of love and a hope that our kids turn out halfway normal, to act, dress, and speak demurely. We need to show our kids how to get attention from those around them in the right way. Well, I’m cashing my vacation time in, and I’d like one day off. I’m not saying I’m about to walk into my classroom and teach donning a “sexy witch” costume. But I am saying that although this holiday is in celebration of the dead, I’m not.

When I met my husband, I was at my family’s annual Halloween party (mom and dad were dressed as Carmen Miranda and Fidel Castro, sister was Joan Jett, Brother #1 was a matador, Brother #2 was Go Go Speed Racer) I was dressed as Eve who was happy to be without her Adam. No one batted an eye since I was a young, naïve 23 year old.  Can I get away with this now?

This year, I will be taking my son trick-or-treating for the first time. And, confidence allowing, you’ll see the two of us walking around our neighborhood dressed up like a Latin, crime-fighting duo.

Olé!

Are We Being Too Hard On Ourselves?

 

Society has it ingrained in women that we need to look like Stepford wives after popping out our kids: big boobs, small waist, perfect clothes, spotless house, hot mate.

Immediately after we have our children, we should be back in pre-maternity clothes, looking well rested, instantly ready to hop back into bed with our partner, and in a constant state of euphoria because of our “perfect” family and the never-ending bliss we receive from them. The obsession we have in the parenting world with perfection is absurd.

When I first met my husband my friend Toni asked me if I was going to tell him the truth about me- that truth being that I swear like a truck driver, I have an unhealthy relationship with reality t.v., I get my news from The Onion, my eating habits haven’t changed since I was five, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why college day parties didn’t catch on in the “adult world”. I told her that he’d just have to find these things out on his own time, at his own pace.  And, for better or worse, he did.

This idea is also true of parenting. No one tells you the cold-hearted truth about this endeavor, just like no one tells you the real story about being married. If they did, the population of the world would dwindle, and very few would be getting those tax breaks for checking the “married” box every April 15^th.  

Likewise, women have to come to grips with the fact that post-babies, things change. Body parts move. Hair becomes less kinky or kinkier (whatever the opposite effect desired is). Suddenly, you’ll tear up at Hallmark cards in the drug store aisle (don’t even get me started on the commercials for Mother’s/ Father’s Day or Christmas). Drinking habits improve- you’ll do this more. And, you realize that you’re in a marathon not a sprint, you’re constantly trying to keep your head above water, and about a million other horrid clichés people tell you to get you through.

I remember weeks after having my son, trying to squeeze my post-baby ass back into my jeans, by lying down on my bed, or the floor, or the kitchen and forcing the zipper to go at least half way up with all my strength. Then I would pull myself up without the ability to bend my legs in the process, throw on an oversized t-shirt triumphantly, and head out the door feeling victorious.

 Why was I so obsessed with trying to look perfect? Because society was telling me that I had to be.

And that is total B.S.

Even while I was pregnant my helpful mother tried to warn me that I would look a little different after having my son, “You really should buy those maternity shorts in a Large, I don’t even know why they make those in any other sizes. No pregnant woman is a Small or Medium anymore. And they never will be again. Let’s go drink margaritas - they’re good for you.” And, dammit, she was right, about everything.

I hope that the new, young moms out there everywhere realize that your kids will love you no matter what. Then, they’ll become teens and be incredibly embarrassed by you, and years later, love you again- for being exactly the way you are.