My Cool Meter

Since becoming a mom, my points on the cool-o-meter have significantly plummeted (and here I thought they didn't have much room to fall...).  Last Tuesday perfectly illustrates this.
A few weeks ago, my students started a tosh.o trend of "High Fashion Tuesdays."  They come to school dressed to impress.  I decided to join them last week. 
I had plans.  Big plans.  My plans included a dress, stilettos, an updo, and fancy accessories.  I must've temporarily forgotten what my mornings usually consist of - me, trying to get ready while Emerson is either tugging at my clothes crying to be held or making a mad dash for the steps so she can climb them.  I managed to get dressed and put on the shoes - the rest dropped down the priority list.

Then, Jesse looked at me.  He said, "I don't think I've seen you dress up like that in a long time."  Ouch.

Then, Emerson spits up a little and it lands on my dress.  I wipe it off with a Kleenex, and think, eh, good enough.  ... because high fashion models wear baby spit up on their clothes, right?

Finally, it's time to leave and as I head out the door, carrying my 20+ lb baby in her 20+ lb carseat, while wearing my stilettos, I say silent prayers that I don't break a leg.  And I come close.

This is just one example - one little morning of my many days and nights - that shows how "uncool" - or, in this case, how unfashionable - motherhood has made me.  Add to that the number of weekends I spend falling asleep on the couch by 9 pm and the number of statuses, tweets, blogs and pictures that I post about Emerson and being a mommy and all that cuddly stuff, and  yeah, I'm pretty much the uncoolest person I know.

But I'm okay with it.  I've never really been too worried about being cool anyway. :)

#HonestTweet

If the following post were on twitter, it would not only be way above the character limit, but it would also be accompanied with the hashtag #HonestTweet.  And maybe #Sappy.  So bear with me.

My mom and I are close.  Always have been.  As a matter of fact, when I was 12 years old, I cried to my mother that I didn't want to turn 13 because I thought teenagers automatically started smarting off to their mothers, and I didn't want to do that.  I have grown up confident that my mother loves me and would do anything for me.
And yet, it was not until I had Emerson that I realized the extent of that love.  As Jesse said when Emerson was a newborn - there should be a different word for the love you feel for your child.  It definitely surpasses what I feel towards anyone, even Jesse.  Or my own mother.  It is a love that, at times, brings tears to my eyes for no reason.  It is a love that makes it okay for me get poop on my thumbnail, spit-up on my new sweater and tangles in my hair.  It is a love that keeps me home to put my baby to bed instead of going to a regional championship basketball game or my husband's awards dinner.  It is a love that makes me hate Sunday nights, cry at the end of extended holidays, and rush out the school door at 3:30 pm.
I think about this sometimes when I look at my high school students.  I hear them complain about their parents or retelling a story where they smarted off to them.  I want to shake them and say, You don't even realize!!  Sometimes I do.  Well, I don't actually shake them, but I do tell them to remember that, one time, many years ago, their parents oohed and ahhed and gushed over them the way I do Emerson.  So go easy on 'em.  (Hopefully someone will say the same to Emerson one day when she's fussing about her mama).

I don't have time for much blogging these days.  If I'm not grading papers or writing lesson plans,  I'm probably either chasing Emerson around the house or collapsing in bed. 
And I wouldn't have it any other way.