or, "How I Lost My Eyelashes..."
When I got pregnant, I (naively) thought my physical transformation into mommy-hood would be blamed on the pregnancy itself. As I watched my body change, my belly grow, I knew I’d never be the same.
I was prepared for the saggy, wrinkled extra skin left behind from my beach-ball belly. I had braced myself for the expansion and ultimate deflation of my breasts. I had adjusted to the excess body hair that sprouted on my stomach, my butt, my legs…my everywhere. But what I wasn’t prepared for is (what I like to call) the slow “mommyfication” that happens well beyond when you deliver the baby.
First came the sleep deprivation that created craters where my eyes used to be that even the best cover-up couldn’t hide. And, let’s face it, who has the time to put on cover-up most days anyway? Then came the wardrobe woes created by the fact that my body just isn’t the same shape it was pre-pregnancy, exacerbated by my cheap self that doesn’t want to buy a whole new wardrobe. I’ll confess that I still have one or two maternity items hanging around in my closet for days when I just can’t. pull. it. together.
With “solid” foods arrived lovely streaks of orange and green that accessorize most of my outfits as I became a human napkin. All this was topped off by the “mom hair” – the ever-practical, short haircut that I swore I’d never succumb to. (And it’s accompanied by all the usual defenses, “It really does make more sense, though.” And, “it’s so much easier to care for, and far less hazardous to my mental health since I’ve been blessed with a little hair-puller.”)
Each of these small steps has chipped away at my former self for the past nine months. One small sacrifice at a time – I now believe – is how we really become mommies, at least on the outside.
But this new development…this is too much.
Little Spaghetti’s love of hair – pulling, twisting, sucking – has gone too far. Even with short hair, the kid would tangle his fingers deep in my once-lovely locks, burrowing his little fist deep next to my scalp as he nursed or fell asleep. Then, a few days ago, he decided my hair wasn’t enough. Now, he has to rub my eyelashes. My EYELASHES!
When we go to bed at night, he rests next to me, and with as much gentleness as a nine-month old can muster, uses his pointer finger to stroke my eyelashes as he drifts off into sleep. Beside the fact that this isn’t exactly a relaxing way for *me* to fall asleep, he has a tendency to poke me in the eye. Not on purpose, but it hurts nonetheless.
Each day when I wake up, I find no less than eight eyelashes attached to his little footie pajamas. They just don’t have the strength to withstand this new obsession. I fear I may soon become eyelash-less. And let’s be honest, no amount of mascara will fix that new mommy trait.
Update: see my solution here.