P.S. If you are one of those skinny new moms, please know that the rest of us hate you a little. Even if you are super nice and save kittens and shit.
|Pretty? Feminine? Sexy? Not so much.|
Oh, and my hair totally looked like her tail.
Recovering from a C-section, nursing a new baby, sleep deprivation, taking care of the house, cooking and entertaining an almost three year old are all manageable... on their own. Doing them all together is sort of like wrangling five feral cats at the veterinarian's office and carrying a 50 lb bag of dogfood on one shoulder while something from Billy Ray Cyrus' mullet collection is stuck on repeat at volume 11.
This is where the spouse steps in to pick up the slack.
Since he lacks mammary glands, my husband quickly became the diaper wrangler, the errand runner and the grocery getter.
One day, on his way out to run errands, my kind-hearted groom looked at his bedraggled, baggy eyed, matted haired, formerly sexy bride and cautiously asked me, "Can I get you anything?"
I sniffed the baby's bottom to check for poo, tucked an delinquent strand of greasy hair behind my ear, pulled at the waist of my giant underwear and mumbled, "Probably."
I'm certain that in that moment, his carnal desire for me was at an all time high.
"What do you need?" he asked, almost at a whisper.
I looked at my rough, dry, ignored feet and said, "My heels are really dry. Could you find me some lotion for my feet?" Then I continued, "I would LOVE a thick, luxurious foot cream- something to make my feet look pretty and feel soft. I need a little pampering and those are the only part of me that have any hope for normalcy right now because the rest has gone to hell."
"Foot Cream. Check!" he said as he bolted for the door.
I spent the next two plus hours (because that is the minimum amount of time it takes my husband to run an errand) fantasizing about expensive foot cream. I wondered where he would go to pick out something special for me... maybe Aveda? Perhaps he would visit the Elizabeth Arden counter at Macy's? Maybe he would go to Whole Foods and get something made from humanely harvested organic oils, smelling of the rain forest and unicorns, and costing $124. I didn't know what he would pick out with me in mind, but I was excited to have something buttery and fragrant to massage into my neglected feet; then I would use the remainder on my dry hands in an attempt to regain the youthful buoyancy of moisturized skin. It would probably even come in a cute paper bag stuffed with tissue and tied with ribbon. He had been gone for awhile- longer than usual. He must have made a special trip for my only request!
When he arrived home multiple hours later, I anxiously watched him bring in bags of groceries, which he set on the counter for me to unload, groceries being so tricky to put away and all. Finally, when no cute department store/spa bag was produced, I asked, "Did you find me some foot cream?"
He casually replied, "Oh yeah. I asked the pharmacist at Safeway what I should get you for your dry, cracked feet and she gave me this. She assured me that it was the best thing for your problem."
Then he tossed a tube of generic brand anti-fungal cream at me.
|He didn't even spring for the name brand kind.|
The overwhelming disappointment surely registered on my face when I contorted it into an expression that I call "WTF is this? Are you an idiot?" In my mind I was thinking, "GEE. Thanks, honey. Nothing makes a woman feel sexier than a tube of ointment for Athlete's Foot." Yet I somehow managed a weak-sauce, "Thank you?",because at least he tried.
He tried, but he failed.
Please point me to that pharmacist so that I can flog her with a dirty diaper.
Spreading anti-fungal cream onto my feet was about as luxurious as smearing diaper cream on a baby's bum. Both activities not only require the use of no more than two fingers, but also necessitate a thorough hand washing when finished. While it may have been practical, that was not the experience that my exhausted, used-up self was desiring.
Not even a little.
Because sometimes mothers need a break from "practical" so that we feel like more than just mothers. Sometimes we need a break from "two fingered cream application" so that we can rediscover that side of us that got us knocked up in the first place. Sometimes we simply need a little pampering; the kind without leak-guard and Velcro tabs.
What is the moral of this story?
Don't send out a man with Shrek feet to buy you foot cream.