There’s been a fashion party going on, and all the Mommies (and Daddies) were invited to join in with a project inspired by #365 Feminist selfie – to show their real selves, not the fancy-schmancy dolled-up-to-the-nines version.
With my fashionably Real self.
What kind of clothes tell her apart?
Would you even know she’s a parent
Wearing her lost children’s names on her heart?
You’d see her in casuals, perhaps
On occasions, designer clothes (maybe)
But whatever the state of her dress
She’s always bereft of her baby
Her clothes might be clingy to show off
Or soft and fluffy to snuggle in
Her garments conveniently hide
The ever-present envy beneath her skin
She doesn’t qualify for ‘Mommy jeans’
Sometimes her sadness is like a shroud
She’s not ‘one of the parents’ but
No longer fits with the ‘child-free’ crowd
Her make-up might be immaculate
With perfectly coiffed hair
She might wear stained clothes for a week
‘Cause she can’t bring herself to care
There’s never snot on her shoulder
Her status to thereby infer
She’s not covered in sticky handprints
Oh, how she wishes she were
She might wear a beautiful dress
Or shoes to make your heart race
She might wear a Tigger suit to cry
And wish the world was a kinder place
If you meet her she might smile
And come across as a charmer
You’d never know that she’s put on
Each item of jewellery as armour
And beware if you see her painted:
The make-up’s a mask to cover her grief
The simple process of dressing could
Have you shaking your head in disbelief
She’s rarely entirely in black
And might be covered in rainbows
Though the brightness is faded for her
Dulled by the pain that her soul knows
So what’s the importance of clothes
In a world where her children are gone?
It’s either vital or worthless;
The fashion of the Invisible Mom.
Disclaimer (because I hate being an asshole without explaining…): Waking up to find the Blogosphere (at least, the section I frequent) had flown into full-on ‘Mommy Blogger’ territory sent my morning reeling into full-on pain/grief/tears/anger/exclusion mode. Because that’s how life is sometimes, and it’s the aftershocks of going through miscarriage and it’s the ongoing quakes of dealing with infertility, and it’s thwarted dreams and bitterness and envy and hurt. And so I cried my way to work and cussed out the Mommy Bloggers and their parenting clicques, even if they let people play who don’t belong there.
But I mulled through the day and I realised that not only are most of these Mommy Bloggers women I consider to be excellent bloggers, many I consider to be my friends, and I felt like a dick for being so bitter, and taking it so personally when really, it’s plain that this isn’t something which is ‘aimed’ – they’re not being Mommy Bloggers at me. They’re just being real. And trying to have fun. And I’m a dumbass for being upset about that – I should be celebrating with them. But in spite of my good intentions and my deep and abiding love and respect for some of the people in the hop, I couldn’t find it in myself not to be a *little* bit of an asshole about this. And join in.