After the birth of babyQ, I let myself believe it was okay to start wearing the same few tops over and over again – you know, the ones that actually fit the post-baby bod. I began to believe it was okay to run my fingers through my hair instead of a brush. Perhaps it wasn’t the end of the world to leave the house without mascara. Or to wear sweat pants at any time other than a 9pm dog walk. To wear yoga pants everywhere. To let an industrial sized bra strap peek out from under my tank top.
I have, however, now reached a new low: one that I swore, no matter what, would ever happen.
Mr.Q walked into the kitchen the other evening, stopped, and stared at my hair. Except it wasn’t really my hair that was the issue. It was my left shoulder. More precisely, it was the back of my left shoulder, upon which sat an unapologetic spit up stain.
Yes, it only took 5 1/2 months, but I have now walked around [just the house, thank god] for nearly 2 hours with baby puke on my shirt. And I had no clue.
I think I’ve now passed the final initiation rite for New Mom. Or, do I mean hazing ritual…?