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.