Mom Boot-gate

It was the statement that rocked my world:  “And look at you…!  Wearing MOM BOOTS!”

Um, excuse me?

I have never heard of “mom boots,” but I am quite confident it is not a compliment — akin to observing, “Your hair, it’s SO Phyllis Diller!”

Perhaps the worst part is that my so-called friend (who is going to be mortified by this post) preceded this comment by nonchalantly observing I am “looking all big and strong and stuff.”  Presumably because I was effortlessly carrying Miss Skye, all seventeen pounds of her, with one hand.  But still…!  The way he described me, I might as well be a lumberjack.  A big, strong lumberjack.  With MOM BOOTS.  I cringe to even think what the “and stuff” translates to.

Prior to popping out the kid, I’d promised myself I would try to maintain a modicum of style.  Sure, I may not bathe for days.  And my nursing pads may be rolled into a permanent, sticky ball at the bottom of my bra cups, effectively absorbing zero drops of my lactation in public.  But I would always wear heels, dammit!

So I looked down at my feet.  In all fairness to my friend, who I adore, my current footwear IS “mom”-like compared to my stilettos of yesteryear.  A tragic sacrifice I made for my daughter.  Yes, I now wear riding boots with two-inch heels instead of sky-high slingbacks so I don’t end up tripping and throwing the kid down our townhouse’s four flights of stairs.  Which the baby books tell me is a bad thing.

Here are the offending boots.  Not the best picture, but you get the idea.  Now that I really look at Skye, I can tell she is thinking, “Dear God.  Would somebody PLEASE get this woman a decent pair of kitten heels?”

MOM BOOTS!  *Sigh*

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to slip into a pair of high-waisted, flat-assed light blue jeans from Mervyn’s.