You know those mother’s who slip from the bed, throw on a jacket over the pajamas (or nightgown, if they’re classy), and grab any old pair of shoes (or “World’s Greatest Dad” slippers if they happen to be closer), and then drop off their kids at school, praying all the while that no one they know will see them? Well, that’s me.
I am an Ugly Mother (Notice I titled it. It’s an exclusive club, of which I’m a member).
If I run a brush threw my hair, count yourself lucky.
My teenage son has come to accept it. He doesn’t like it, but it is what it is.
“Could you at least put some jeans on instead of your witch pajama bottoms?” he has asked in the past.
I like my witch pajamas. It reflects my true self. I even wear them when it’s not Halloween, because they’re comfy and I like comfy—I’ll take comfy over practical any day.
“No,” I tell him. “Just be lucky I’m awake and not making you walk.”
I’m in a carpool with four other teenagers besides my son, and not one of the four has mentioned my lack of proper driving attire. That makes me wonder . . . what do the other mothers do? You know what? Strike that. It doesn’t matter. If they’re dressed in their designer jeans with makeup and hair all in place, kudos to them. Every kid needs to have at least one Ugly Mother in the group, and I’m just fine with that (as long as I can sleep in a bit more, I don’t care).
I’m more of a “mid-afternoon kinda gal.” Two o’clock I’m at my prime. I hate mornings. I loath them. Alarm clocks suck. But the afternoon, well, that’s when I come alive. I’m nicer then. I’m more patient then. And I usually have showered and dressed by then, too.
Around two I take off my ugly mother hat and put on the average-looking mother hat (pretty-looking mother is only a Sunday deal, sorry).
The kids know I have the ability to look good. They’ve seen me in the afternoon and on Sundays. They know I’m capable of more. I choose to look the way I do in the morning. It’s a choice, a part of my rights as an American citizen, tax payer, and sometimes voter to look the way I do.
I just have no desire to be up and dressed, primped and curled by nine in the morning. No desire whatsoever.
So if you come up to my van to speak to me in the morning, I will roll my window down and do my best not to frighten you with my Halloween pajamas and bad breath. I will talk to you. I will be a tad embarrassed, but obviously not enough to make me change and try harder the next day. I will look the same. That’s pretty much a given. Because really, it’s your fault you approached my car before 2:00pm.
Are you an Ugly Mother? Tell me your worst morning moment. I’d love to know.
I am an Ugly Mother (Notice I titled it. It’s an exclusive club, of which I’m a member).
If I run a brush threw my hair, count yourself lucky.
My teenage son has come to accept it. He doesn’t like it, but it is what it is.
“Could you at least put some jeans on instead of your witch pajama bottoms?” he has asked in the past.
I like my witch pajamas. It reflects my true self. I even wear them when it’s not Halloween, because they’re comfy and I like comfy—I’ll take comfy over practical any day.
“No,” I tell him. “Just be lucky I’m awake and not making you walk.”
I’m in a carpool with four other teenagers besides my son, and not one of the four has mentioned my lack of proper driving attire. That makes me wonder . . . what do the other mothers do? You know what? Strike that. It doesn’t matter. If they’re dressed in their designer jeans with makeup and hair all in place, kudos to them. Every kid needs to have at least one Ugly Mother in the group, and I’m just fine with that (as long as I can sleep in a bit more, I don’t care).
I’m more of a “mid-afternoon kinda gal.” Two o’clock I’m at my prime. I hate mornings. I loath them. Alarm clocks suck. But the afternoon, well, that’s when I come alive. I’m nicer then. I’m more patient then. And I usually have showered and dressed by then, too.
Around two I take off my ugly mother hat and put on the average-looking mother hat (pretty-looking mother is only a Sunday deal, sorry).
The kids know I have the ability to look good. They’ve seen me in the afternoon and on Sundays. They know I’m capable of more. I choose to look the way I do in the morning. It’s a choice, a part of my rights as an American citizen, tax payer, and sometimes voter to look the way I do.
I just have no desire to be up and dressed, primped and curled by nine in the morning. No desire whatsoever.
So if you come up to my van to speak to me in the morning, I will roll my window down and do my best not to frighten you with my Halloween pajamas and bad breath. I will talk to you. I will be a tad embarrassed, but obviously not enough to make me change and try harder the next day. I will look the same. That’s pretty much a given. Because really, it’s your fault you approached my car before 2:00pm.
Are you an Ugly Mother? Tell me your worst morning moment. I’d love to know.
