I have a baseball cap. It looks simple enough. It’s hot pink with a kelly green South Carolina logo. :sc: I bought pink because . . . well, I really like pink. And that way my men know it’s mine. “Mommy yike pink?” :kid:
On first glance, I look just like a Southern preppy slouch. When you see me wearing it, you know that I didn’t fix my hair or my face. You know that my last shower was the previous night with a wriggling baby slung to me. But you also know that my dog has been walked, my toddler chased, and my baby jigged.
When you see me wearing it, you know that I won’t be shopping or dining out that day. I won’t be wearing a skirt, contacts, or “product” in my hair. You know that I’m probably wearing nothing more fancy than two pairs of blister-resistant socks, red capri sweats, and a Mary Englebreit “Bloom Where You are Planted” tee. But the poop has been scooped, the bubbles blown, the neighbors greeted, the lawn watered, the wading pool reinflated, cleaned, and filled. I’ve played soccer with the pup, “freeze” with tot, and patty-cake with the babe’s feet.
When you see me wearing it, you know that I probably got to pick up the kitchen, unload the dishwasher, vacuum the rug, and bathe the dog. You know that I probably will get 40 winks when for a brief moment there is an intersection of toddler and newborn rest. You know that I will see more than my share of Blue’s Clues that day. You know that I tried (and failed at) a new Rachael Ray recipe.
When you see me wearing it, you know that I won’t be greeting my hubby June-Cleaver-style with shirtwaist starched and pearls glimmering. But you also know that we will all greet him at the very least with faces well-scrubbed and with intended squeals of welcome.
Yes, that’s what that baseball cap means. It means that for today I’m fully a mommy and wife and that my beauty is not at all in my mascara wand. It’s in a sleepy and satisfied snuggle on the couch with this wriggling family of five.