Why makeup is dangerous (probably not what you think)

Before I became a mom, I vowed that I would NOT “let myself go.” You know, the kind of thing that a single gal promises herself when she looks at the mom in the grocery aisle next to her who isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup to help hide the fact that she hasn’t slept in months, has her still-damp hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, and is wearing what appears to be her husband’s t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. And, you tally your coupons, tuck your cell phone into your neatly organized purse, and wait for her to corral her children and push her extremely full grocery cart down the aisle, and think to yourself: “I’m not going to be one of those moms who just doesn’t care anymore once I have kids….”

Hahahahahaha

Ah ahahaha hahahahahahahahahahaha!

Hahahaha. Whew! That’s a good one!

Now that I have two lovely little munchkins of my own, I’ve come to realize that, for a lot of moms, it’s not about letting yourself “go” at all. It’s not like becoming a mom makes you suddenly think things like: “I don’t care about being sexy for my husband anymore…I popped out two kids!”

Contrary to what some may think, the seemingly haphazardly dressed, barely put together moms that you see when you are in public that make your non-mom insides cringe have not suddenly decided to scrap any sense of style and just go for “comfy and ugly.” Sure, we’d like to slap some cover-up on those under-eye circles that seem a permanent part of our lives now, and we’re just as embarrassed as you are about the blueberry stains on our shirts. But, we needs groceries, and sometimes makeup is dangerous.

Like, life-and-death dangerous.

Don’t believe me? Sound like a stretch? Ohhh, let me tell you of the dangers.

And no, this isn’t a “what’s in your makeup could kill you” post. This is a post for moms everywhere who understand the peril of getting ready to go somewhere.

It’s like those commercials that take a normal situation and blow it WAYYYY out of proportion. You know, the Direct TV ones? When you have cable and can’t watch your shows, you become depressed….and before you know it your dad is being punched in the face over a can of soup, or you’re left beaten on the side of the road, or a giant gorilla body slams you when you get your mail…and all because you don’t have Direct TV. Ring a bell? Yea, those.

I can hear you scoffing now. “Those are SOOO far fetched,” you’re saying. “Ha, they blow those WAY out of proportion.”

When we’re talking cable television, yes. But not for moms. Oh, not for moms.

In the time it takes a normal person to, say, slap on some mascara…or change their shirt…something happens in the house of a mom with little kids that immediately turns such normal-sounding activities into life-or-death, threatening situations. 

Don’t believe me? 



Take this morning for instance. I wanted to take the kids to the library needed to go to the library to return a book that Oliver lost and was so long overdue they were about to make me pay for it. So I changed diapers, gave them clean clothes, handed Oliver a snack, buckled Clara into her seat with a toy, and went to get myself ready.

5 minutes. All I needed was 5 minutes.

Oliver, who cannot be separated from me for more than .05 seconds, was at the bathroom door in a heartbeat and Clara, who could no longer see her brother started sobbing from the living room. I’ve just squirted cover-up onto my finger when suddenly the door to the bathroom slams open (into my head).

 WHACK!

“Mommy?” 

“Yes Oliver…?” I say as I rub the sore spot on the side of my head and begin to dab the dark circles under my eyes.

“Hi mommy!”

“Hi Oliver.”

“Mommy?”

“What do you need, Oliver?”

“Hi Mommy!”

“Oliver, Mommy needs to get ready now. Can you go get your snack please and sit back on the couch?”

“Ok.”

He walks partially out of the bathroom and I pull out my foundation, dotting it on my face, when suddenly the door hits me from the OTHER side.

WHACK! 

He apparently decided to pull the door shut again before he left the bathroom. Awesome.

I promise myself that someday we’ll have a bigger bathroom, move out of the way of the closing door, and start smoothing out my foundation as Oliver tries to close the bathroom door with one hand while still holding onto his sippy cup with the other. Not successful.

Bang!

He pulls it as hard as he can, but can’t turn the handle with just one hand, and it catches on the door frame and doesn’t close all the way.

Screeeeeeeeech!

He pushes it back open again in an attempt to get more momentum to swing it shut. I step out of the way, standing to the right of the mirror and trying to lean left as far as I can, so that I can see what I’m doing but still stay clear of the moving door.

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeech!

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeeech!

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeech!

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeeech!

I can’t take it anymore and am about to tell him to just leave it open when Oliver drops his sippy cup on his toes and starts to wail, matching pitch with Clara, who is still in the other room…also wailing. I wash off my fingers, leave my foundation splotches all over my face, kiss Oliver’s toes, hand him his juice, and make sure everything is ok.

“Oliver, mommy will shut the door, ok? Can you please go sit by Clara? She likes to see you…”

“Ok.” 

I shut the door, and hear his footsteps as he clomps into the livingroom as only a toddler can. I rub in the rest of the now slightly crusty foundation and grab my mascara…putting the brush up to my eyelid and –

Whack!

The bathroom door smacks my head. Again. I jump, causing the mascara brush to stab me right in the eyeball. Mascara is all over my hands, all over my eye, and tears are now running down one side of my face.

“What, Oliver?”  I’m trying to be patient, but I’m certain my voice has picked up a bit of an edge to it now.

“Mommy?”

“What?”

“Buy Ibee Book?”

“Yes, we will go buy library books. Please give mommy a couple minutes to finish getting ready.”

“Couple Minn-ess. Be ‘ite back, in couple minn-ess.”

“Yes, Oliver, a couple minutes.”

Clara is now wailing, again.

“Can you go back by Clara, please?”

“Otay!”

Screeeeeeeeeeeech!

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeeeeeech!

SLAM!

Screeeeeeeeeeeee-


“Oliver! It’s fine! Just leave the door open, please!”

I grab the eye makeup remover and rub off the mascara  (and most of my foundation). While I’m doing so, Oliver decides not to leave the bathroom, and instead begins unraveling the toilet paper.

Whirrrrr-whirrrrrrr-whirrrr-whap-whap-whap-whirrrrrr

I turn around to find him smacking the toilet paper roll as fast and as hard as he can, 2/3 of it is already unraveled all over the floor. How does this even happen in like 3 seconds?

“Oliver, don’t touch the toilet paper. Please, please just go out in the living room.”

“Beeba cryyyysin!”

“Yes, I know baby is crying, can you go talk to her please?”

He walks out of the room and I close the door…locking it this time. My hair is still damp from my shower this morning but, eh, who cares. I grab a pony tail holder and start to pull it back.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

“Mommy?”

“You can’t come in, Oliver. Just wait…ok? I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG 
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
BANG!!!

Ugh, who even cares what I look like. Seriously. It’s not worth this!

On my way out of the bathroom I glance in the mirror and notice that Clara smeared her breakfast all over my shirt. I run upstairs to get a new one and can hear Oliver “handing” baby Clara some toys. Apparently not gently enough because now she’s crying and I’m grabbing the closest shirt I can find (which happens to be my husband’s t-shirt) and running back down the stairs, pulling it over my head as I go.

Clara is fine. I wipe her tears and have a discussion with Oliver about how we need to be careful with the baby because she’s smaller than he is. I unbuckle Clara from her seat and sniff…and then check her diaper. Yep. Poop. Siiiiiiiigh, is it EVER possible to leave the house?

So, we go back into Clara’s room to change her diaper. While I do, Oliver drags in a huge bin of toys and when I’m right the middle of changing Clara he picks it up as high as he can and then dumps it all out onto the hardwood floor – which makes such a chaotic, loud noise that Clara literally flips herself over to see what happened, and gets poop EVERYWHERE.

I pull her off of the now-messy changing table and clean her up, glancing at my shirt. Still clean. Whew! The pad on the changing table can wait till we get back.

Ok. Here we go. I kick the toys out of the way and buckle Clara into her car seat only to notice that, while I managed to keep my shirt clean, I have poop on my pants. Great. My last pair of clean jeans. Not trusting Oliver with Clara for long enough for me to run to the basement to grab a different, non-poop covered pair out of the dirty laundry, I grab the sweatpants I had hanging in the bathroom.

And yes, that is how I went to the library today. Sam’s shirt. Sweatpants. Sneakers. My makeup mostly washed off, and my hair, well, I still haven’t looked in the mirror to see what that turned out looking like. So much for my vow!!

Being a mom isn’t about “letting yourself go;” makeup and clean clothes are dangerous, I tell you. Dangerous.

If you reach for that mascara, you might get stabbed in the eye, or your daughter might be knocked unconscious, or your house might burn to the ground!!!! NO joke. Don’t DO IT!

I should totally write commercials. Move over, DirectTV.

Granted, I LOVE weekends when Sam is around to help watch the kids and I get to take a long shower and blow dry my hair and put on makeup just to go to the grocery store. And yes, I DO want my husband to still think I’m sexy – what woman doesn’t? But, some days…looking great is just too dangerous.

So, to you single ladies out there…the next time you see a mom in sweat pants, consider this: Would you rather be seen in sweat pants, or wear greenish poop all over your designer jeans? And then cut her some slack, ok? She probably likes nice clothes and has a nice haircut under that pony tail…but sometimes, the fact that she, and her children, are actually out of the house and IN clothes AT ALL is nothing short of a miracle.

And to my fellow sweat pant-wearing, non-makeup-clad, why-did-I-bother-getting-a-nice-haircut-when-there’s-never-time-to-style-it, super-hero moms out there:

Your style ROCKS. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 🙂

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