Written by Nutmeg from Simply Nutmeg
I recently attended an afternoon party with a group of young urban professionals, metrosexuals, and snobs, none of whom had children. Although the hosts were childless, the invitation clearly said “Bring the kids!” I knew I was in trouble when I joined the small crowd arriving on the front porch. Everyone looked so chic, with their high heels, beautiful little gift bags, and envelope-sized designer purses. I made my entrance lugging a diaper bag, a sack of toys, an art kit, a collapsible scooter, and four small, hungry, and uncooperative children. Was I supposed to bring a gift too?
The hostess looked at our entourage with real fear in her eyes and began lifting all her breakables to higher ground. Did she not read the invitation she sent out?
To say I felt out of place at this party, where I only knew the hostess, is akin to saying water is wet. Everybody had tasteful piercings and trendy Celtic ankle tattoos, while the coolest thing I was sporting was my new Velcro nursing bra. It was like an Abercrombie and Fitch fashion show only I looked more like I belonged on a Gap runway. In 1998.
You know it's bad when someone says," What's that smell?" and everyone looks straight at you. What? It’s not me! It’s him! Give me a break, he’s a baby and he tried sour kraut last night!
Whenever I attempted to mingle with a group, the intellectual conversation seemed to grind to a stop. You'd think I was wearing overalls with hay sticking out of my hair and a monkey slung on my hip. Why is it that people see a mother with more than two children and automatically assume that she is of one dimension? Is it impossible to believe that I may also be colorful - intelligent, modern, witty, even hip? I mean, I know Billy Holiday was a woman! I vote! I listen to Modest Mouse! I've inhaled!! And yes, I have heard of birth control, thank you!
There was a time when I would have tried to justify myself to this crowd, to point out that while I manage four children and run a house, I also hold down a job, freelance write, and have my own blog. That Bossy reads. But somehow I would have only ended up sounding like the porn star calling herself an actress, or worse, like one of them.
I realized as I stood in that crowd, that I no longer have a need to justify myself to anybody. I stand out like flashy sparkles in the water because I'm happy, authentic, and finally comfortable in my own skin, even if, on occasion, it might look a little green.