One of my 3475283475239487294867 favorite movies is Stepford Wives. The remake of it, that is, with Nicole Kidman. If you've never seen it, I highly recommend, and no, not just because Roger Bart makes me fan-girl squeal. (Although he totally makes that movie...and The Producers. I'm just saying.) I love the premise. A woman's perfect world breaks down, she's transported to a village full of someone's idea of perfect couples, only to understand that she can't possibly maintain that because who and what she is works with who and what her husband, Walter (SIMBA) is. Ah, a feel good movie. Now, that said. There are several scenes where Joanna, Nicole's character, is made to feel terrible about the sense of fashion she enjoys, because, you know, a cheerful perfect wife wouldn't wear that. The "perfect" wife resembles June Cleaver, whom I hate on principle.
June Cleaver and her ilk were all fine and dandy in the 50's and 60's, but you know what I'm seeing more of? No more pearls and shin-length dresses and vacuums for days....I'm seeing moms that may look like a hot mess, but they don't give a flying fart in space because they're enjoying their babies. Dancing around in yoga pants and a t-shirt that should never see the light of day again, playing games, making art, making blanket forts in the living room, laughing at armpit farts. Let's be honest, folks. Isn't a mom that isn't afraid to make a fool of herself more memorable than the mom that's afraid of you making a mess? My favorite memories of my mom are when she played Barbies with me. When she got jiggy with it to goofy, unexplainable music in the middle of renovating the house. When we sat around the TV and ate Subway sandwiches and from behind I hear a college frathouse-worthy belch from the very depths. I like the light-hearted side of my mom. It's contagious.
I want to be that for my kiddos too. And no. This larger mama doesn't dance overly well (I am white, after all, and just have no sense of rhythm, period), but J doesn't know that. He has no issue giggling hysterically when Mommy dances like a dysfunctional babboon, and makes goofy noises and tosses bouncy balls around. He likes crawling all over "seepy Mommy". When he gets older I want him to remember dance parties with Mom, and singing like no one's listening in the car (at the top of my lungs, every single time). I want him to not care that Mommy didn't wear makeup on most days. She didn't style her hair every morning. But she was fun. She loved spending time with him. So yeah. Maybe I'm not in skinny jeans and the latest cute tank....but I do twerk better in yoga pants. More range of movement, ya know?
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