In the weeks before my son’s birth, I fantasized a lot.  Visions of my baby and I relaxing at the beach pervaded my daydreams.  He would wear a stylish waterproof diaper and miniature sunglasses.  I would sport a bikini, my newly flattened belly glistening with oil.  We’d lounge under a yellow umbrella and wile away the hours listening to gentle waves crashing along the shore.  I thought my life would be just that: my life + baby.  The equation seemed simple enough.  But in the weeks after my son’s arrival, I discovered my life changing in ways I couldn’t calculate, including the subtraction of one flat belly drenched in oil.  Instead, I was usually drenched in formula, and I’d begun doing things my pre-baby self would have never done, like wiping spit up on my own clothing, as if I were a walking paper towel, or wearing the same gym shorts and t-shirt combo for three consecutive days (sleeping in it, too).  I quickly came to realize that when it comes to motherhood, there are few mathematical truths.

  

I used to be the kind of woman who spent more than an hour getting ready to go anywhere.  I was definitely high maintenance.  And while I was pregnant, I honestly imagined maintaining my routine, curling my eyelashes in the mirror while my child gleefully chewed on a teething ring beside me.  I wanted to look perfect, so every moment of motherhood could be a well-posed glossy 8x10.  That’s what I’d learned from my mom’s stacks of women’s magazines, which I started reading under the covers by flashlight when I was eight years old.



But then something started happening.  All those creams and powders and potions began losing a bit of their magic.  Slowly, I didn’t feel like I needed them so desperately anymore.  And the woman I found beneath all the makeup?  I kinda liked her.

Of course I’m not suggesting that mothers must shun makeup and personal hygiene in order to find themselves, but that’s how it happened for me.  I’m sure you can find yourself just as easily with freshly washed hair and a fine coat of lip gloss or even (gasp) wearing a bikini.

Karen Dietrich writes Grapes at Midnight.