A while back, we had a slight incident at The Wedding Date’s house. His children were over, a door that should have been locked wasn’t and… well, without going into details I realized it was time to invest in some grown up pajamas.
And this time I mean “grown up” in the maternal sense.
I bought a blue and black capris-and-tank top combo in addition to a knee-length nightgown. I’m not generally a fan of nightgowns—I’m not a fan of grown up pajamas period— but this one has a little ruffle around the collar so you can’t tell whether I’m wearing a bra or not.
I’ve taken to referring to my new duds as my “soccer mom pjs.” They’re comfortable but they’re not particularly sexy… which is, of course, the entire point.
I’ve also started bringing a change of clothes into the bathroom with me when I shower, lest I find myself running around the house in a towel when TWD’s kids are around.
Finally, I’ve selected a half dozen “soccer mom outfits” from my wardrobe. No more clingy tops or short skirts and even though no one seemed to mind when I went backless on July 4th, I’ve been trying to exercise a greater degree of maturity in my dress.
Admittedly, I don’t love this—I like dressing provocatively on occasion. Heck, I’ve even vacuumed in the nude! But it’s all part of the package when it comes to TWD.
This past summer, I began to realize just how complicated this whole situation actually is. TWD brought his youngest along with him to Philadelphia to celebrate my birthday. We were only playing miniature golf (albeit with cocktails) but when we decided to go for a drink afterward, TWD got all weird looking.
“What?” I asked.
“We shouldn’t come with you guys. Not to a bar.”
Right. That whole parenting thing.
He urged me to go along with my friends and offered to meet us back at my parent’s house but I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him—my boyfriend— to come with us. Was that so crazy?
Eventually we compromised on a restaurant that had a bar, and my brother did an excellent job of making conversation with TWD’s kid while we ordered our drinks.
But still. It’s difficult.
And sometimes I feel selfish because it’s like, “You know what? I didn’t sign up for this.” Sure I’ve known about TWD’s kids since our first date but I didn’t really comprehend what having kids entailed: the financing, the scheduling, the custody issues, the stress. I didn’t know that I’d have to buy soccer mom pjs. I didn’t know that I’d have to rethink my birthday plans to include an under-ager.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy spending time with them. We had a blast watching the Opening Ceremonies together over the summer (at least I did, I’m not sure they were equally enthusiastic). And going to the beach is way more fun with them. Last Sunday, I even got to show off my new soccer mom duds at an actual soccer game.
And you know what? It didn’t suck. It wasn’t what I signed up for but I can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.
- I guess I’m now a soccer mom… (stephaniegetsridofhercrap.wordpress.com)
- Victoria Beckham Talks Guest Editing Glamour Magazine (shoppingblog.com)
- Confessions of the Culinary-Challenged (fieldworkinstilettos.com)