First and foremost, my appearance. I no longer give a damn about what I look like. Hell, who am I kidding? I didn't really before Weston, but now it's getting out of hand. I am (very) happy I am already married, because there isn't a chance in hell I'd be able to attract a man without a few (horse) tranquilizers and a couple of feet of rope. How does it go? It puts the lotion on the skin or else...oh, wait, never mind.
I've had my hair in a ponytail for approximately three months. I wear sweatpants/pajama bottoms/ratty shorts I've had since grade 9 on the regular. I base shirt choices on how easily I can haul out a boob. Funny enough, that's also how I wound up pregnant.
Now, I may look like hell, but I smell good at least. It's mandatory that I shower daily. It's my 20 minutes to scrape poop/spit up/drool off of me. If I don't get to shower, don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't come within a 20 mile radius of my house. I will light you on fire.
Speaking of poop/spit up/drool - I don't care about coming into contact with these at all (assuming they are being expelled from Weston). In fact, I'm surprised if I manage to make it through the day without being covered in one (or all) of these substances. Jordan still has yet to master a lack of concern in this department. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when Weston pooped on him last week. It's just poop. NBD, dude.
Eating is also on the back burner. Weston doesn't really nap anymore, so when I actually get him to nap during the day it's generally on my chest. Therefore, I do not move a muscle or make a peep. I sit on the couch hoping that if my stomach is going to eat away at my fat supply, that it starts with the fat on my ass. So far, no go.
And using the bathroom? If Weston is asleep on me, I would rather piss myself than move him to go to the bathroom. Legit. Luckily, all the kegels are working wonders.
I hope I've painted parenthood as the glamorous lifestyle that it is. And nothing says glamorous like vomit chic.
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