I'M GRATEFUL FOR MY GRASS...I JUST WISH IT WERE A LITTLE GREENER

It's basically been the same way my whole life. I'm sitting in the grass trying to get some vitamin D on my face and all I can hear is the happy chortles of those next door...playing in their greener grass where the sun is much warmer and their teeth are somehow white as porcelain. Oh, and also, over there in the greener grass, they don't go long stretches of time wearing ZERO traces of make up and they most certainly haven't resigned themselves to "the winter of knit" (which, by the way, has been the lamest idea since not shaving my legs for 6-months in college).

Peering over the fence I can only imagine what I look like to them. Let's just start with the obvious: my hair looks greasy and gray (because it is), my face looks weathered (because having a baby stripped by skin of some super essential hormone that resulted in my face skin turning sallow and crepey). Either that, or I'm 40. Then there is a little thing called Holy Crap, where did my muscle tone go? And finally there is the knit? If comfortable means I walk around all hunched over and sloppy then Hells Yes, I'm comfy. It's just a little difficult to wake up day after day always looking like the pathetic before photo in the makeover segment show What Not To Wear.

This fence peering post I keep, it's familiar. Sometimes I look over and see lots of beautiful people and that's hard. But what is harder is to look over and see people who probably never wake up afraid. I wake up afraid a lot. You see, somewhere way back in the anals of my childhood, I decided that if I couldn't be or do perfectly, then I shouldn't be or do. It's better to just quietly blend into the background or foreground than to try anything and not be perfect at it - which translates to mediocre. And mediocre is basically the worst word you could EVER USE AROUND ME. It's fine if you are describing the steak you had for dinner (unless I cooked it for you) but it's a dagger to the heart if you use it in reference to anything connected to me.There are so many things I want to do or try but I'm simply too afraid.

Those people on the other side of the fence also have this super-human amount of motivation. I mean, I shuffle around the house with my teeth unbrushed, sometimes until...all day long. Meanwhile, they have made 6 loaves of homemade bread, reupholstered a chair they bought for $3 at a garage sale, exercised, and have put together some enchantingly clever outfit that absolutely does not include black yoga pants. They take these beautiful photos of their beautiful lives and all I can do is peek thru the slats in the fence and wonder how in the eff they got back into their jeans after they had their baby. And is their baby already walking?

Does anyone else carry on long bouts of dialogue with themselves? The kind that starts, "did I brush my teeth yet? Oh man, no I didn't. And it's 3pm. Why bother now. Clementine hasn't been out of the house in 3 days. I should be arrested for child abuse for keeping her in the house so long. I guess I'll brush my teeth and take her on a walk but I'm absolutely not combing my hair or changing my clothes. What you see is what you get people. If I wear sunglasses and some lip gloss I'll fool them all. I didn't expect it to be so warm out. I wish I could take off my sweatshirt but my tee has sweet potatoes on it and I accidentally dried it in the dryer so it fits too tight and I hate how my arms look in it. I guess I'll just leave my hoodie on and sweat like a pig. Oh crap, I didn't wear any deodorant. And look at my yoga pants; they haven't been washed in so long they have knee bumps even when I'm standing with my legs straight. It's nice out. This weather, this sunshine, it all makes me want to get really creative. I feel like I could write a novel in 12 seconds if I were home in front of the computer; I'm gonna write for an hour after I get Clementine down for her nap. Look at that cute mom over there swinging her little girl. hmfph. I'm so hot all I want to do is take off this stupid jacket. But now I have BO so I definitely cannot. Clem seems tired, I'll start heading back. When I get home I need to thaw out that chicken so I can make dinner; I think Nate's dad is coming at 5:30. Oh, and I need to put the clothes in the dryer; if I forget again those clothes will permanently smell like mildew. I can't stop thinking about that cute mom at the swings. Oh, there is so-and-so, I don't want her to see me because I stink and I'm pretty sure I was wearing this on Monday when I saw her before.

I love my husband and my baby more than ever. That grass couldn't be greener or more succulent. But the grass that represents me, my accomplishments, how I look and feel...rubbish. Luckily, Clementine has 101 faces that cheer me up during the course of the day and I look forward to each one for their own specific healing powers. Take this one for example.

I imagine her as a pirate saying,
"It's time to throw ye overboard matey.
That tee is a disgrace even to a pirate."

Dear People Magazine,

I usually brush my teeth by1pm. My makeup routine on a good day is mascara, lip gloss and a little blush. Some days I don't brush my hair at all. And I recently coined the term "winter of knits" on a shopping trip with Kym and our wee ones. You see, I haven't put on any clothes with structure since I was about 6 months pregnant. Everything I wear is knit. Thank goodness there are some beautiful options out there; unfortunately an entire knit ensemble makes me look like I've had the flu indefinitely.

All this being said, I feel like a total rockstar whenever I enter a room - as long as that room has Clementine in it. She swoons. She coos. She looks at me like I'm the MOST IMPORTANT PERSON EVER. Sure, my breath might be heavy-laden with onion from last nights pico de gallo and I might be wearing this lavender t-shirt for a third day...but her eyes say, "Stars are just like us". To her beautiful big, blue eyes I'm on the pages of People Magazine and I look this cool doing mundane things like loading the dishwasher or scrubbing her bottles. P.S. I DON'T.

Don't let her expression fool you. She thinks I'm RAD.

In the end, if I'm a celebrity in Clementine's eyes, I've won the lottery.