Glamour Shots

There is nothing glamorous about motherhood. 

Your hair is never done. "Makeup" means chapstick on a good day. Showers are utilitarian at best, and are of duration that would make the most ardent Water Conservation lobbyist proud. 

Your wardrobe consists entirely of items that can withstand the test of BabySnot, Spitup, Drool, and a host of other unmentionable bodily fluids.

You can't remember the last time you sat down for a meal without being asked for 2,385 things that are suddenly deemed vital to the eating process. Milk. More milk. Cut this. Into triangles, not rectangles. (Insert food item here) can only be consumed with my (insert color/type/character here) spoon. Slide me up. Etc.

In fact, you can't remember the last time you sat down for a meal at all.

You get bit while nursing, and not just any bite but a bite-twist-pull bite that makes you wonder why God allows teeth to erupt in the mouths of babes under a year of age. As if that isn't punishment enough, thanks to the combination of open wound and Baby MouthGerms, you then develop full-on sepsis with 104 degree fever and feel as if you will surely die.

You are never fashionably late. Instead, you are beyond-ridiculously-often-miss-the-event-entirely late. Or glad-your-colleagues-need-you-in-the-call-pool-so-you-won't-get-fired late.

A wild night means staying up past 9pm. Bonus points if you're doing something other than making bottles, washing bottles, or cleaning pump parts.

You don't flinch at backwash. Or identifiable completely intact food items in diapers. 

Indeed, motherhood is no Glamour Shot. But give me one of these million-watt baby smiles, or the unbridled joy of a groovin' 10-month-old and I'll gladly forsake the feather boas, hairsprayed bangs, and bright blue eye shadow. 

Turns out, glamour is overrated.