Lord knows our job description has been rewritten when we became mothers. And fathers.
My wardrobe has definitely changed with the arrival of our son. Jeans have reached a whole other level of logic. Though I love my looses dresses too, I admit it is more easy to get in less than flattering flashes of underwear than it is with my jeans. Not least when you fumble around on the floors.
Pockets are key. Mine are always bulging. At the moment it's primarily tissues and chestnuts.
I love the idea of an official uniform of motherhood.
We could wear it on feast days and never have to worry about choosing something appropriate. Ever again! Because would be smart. And feminine. And never look dated. It would be like a female smoking. It would make us look bustier, taller, more straight backed and we would all be sexier it in. Because it would be us to the core. And we would wear it with confidence. Just as many men in their smokings and uniforms.
It would be very green and sustainable. Perhaps embroidered, stitched and sown by our friends and family like the beautiful bunads of Norway, their national costumes.
Our parental chests could be crowded with badges of honour. For sleepless nights endured, bruises kisses, meals cooked, bums wiped. Just for starters. Or maybe just years passed since that momentous change. It would be signs of our personal stories. Not to be compared. But to be seen and acknowledged. And appreciated. By all society.
My clothes are never pristine anymore.
There is always a smear on it somewhere. Mosty of food.
And it always arrives within second of me putting on fresh clothes. Sometimes I notice them. Often I don't. People probably wonder whether I actually own a mirror. And if I do whether I ever use it.
I do. But they don't mean much any more.
I'm just rounder, often more tired looking, dirtier, wearing less make up and more comfy/shapeless clothes. I look more worn. And feel more loved. And love more.