Flashback Saturday: Hip Mom Rule #1

I started these Hip Mom Rules when I was pregnant with my second child. Now that my children are older, it's fun to look back on these rules and see how they've shaped who I am as a mom to three boys as we head into their late elementary and middle school years. I'll be posting a new Hip Mom Rule every other Wednesday and a Flashback rule on the alternating Saturdays until I catch up! If you don't want to miss one, go ahead and subscribe! It would make my day. :)

 Hip Mom Rule #1: It Still Matters
I knew I shouldn’t do it. I know better. You NEVER wear brown leather shoes with black pants. But, being 33 weeks pregnant and exhausted from a day of chasing around an 18-month old, I thought, “Who is really going to care what color shoes I have on when I can’t even see my own feet!” Besides, with a good-looking husband and a cute toddler, who would really notice me anyway?

Once we got to the mall, I became increasingly irritated by my poor shoe selection. I'm normally more pulled together than this. My husband looked great; my toddler looked adorable. And please don't misunderstand. It wasn't that I cared a bit about what others thought of my outfit; it was all about the fact that I hadn't taken time to dress myself confidently. I was suddenly and acutely aware of how little time I had been spending on myself as I addressed the needs of my growing family.

The thing with pregnancy and new momhood is that we tend to put others’ needs well before our own. By the time we catch a glimpse of ourselves in the mirror, we barely resemble the put-together, hip women that we used to be. Instead, a bedraggled, exhausted woman stares back. At no time in my pre-baby life would I have let being tired prevent me from making at least SOME effort.

A hip mom won’t be “put-together” every time she walks out the door, but this hip mom will NOT walk out the door again just not caring. Therefore, I will not leave for Target in my sweat pants. I will not be in my pajamas when my husband gets home from work. I will not go three days without washing my hair, and then cover the evidence with an old, dirty baseball cap. Black pants, black socks. And if this means asking my husband to tie the shoelaces on the only shoes that match those  black pants, then so be it.

I want to be my best version of myself, and I see that as including being a hip mom. For that reason, I will continue fighting to maintain some semblance of my fashionable self in this new maze of dirty diapers, stained shirts, and perfume d’spitup.

A Flashback to When My Boys Were Little:

Note: This Hip Mom Rule was originally written my oldest (who's now 12) was three and the middle child was still the youngest. I am posting it, however, because the less I learned that day has been a recurring theme in raising three lively and entertaining boys!

Hip Mom Rule #17: Ask for help

Having written an entire rule about being on time, this is hard for me to admit – I was running late. I was supposed to be at my friend’s house for dinner at 5:00. It was 4:40 and we were just getting our shoes on. Knowing that it would take about 15 minutes to bike over there (and five minutes to get the kids into the bike trailer), I knew had to get moving. Just jumping in the car was not an option since the car was on vacation with my husband.

Well, as the luck of any hip mom sometimes goes . . . my younger son couldn’t find his sandals. He is two, so they could have been anywhere. After madly searching for a couple of minutes, we found them under his bed (that was a new one!). Then, after successfully getting both boys buckled into the trailer, I realized that the air on the trailer tire was a little low. Have you ever tried pulling 90 pounds of kids in a bike trailer with low tires? I pulled out the air pump and went for the tire valve. Oh, the tire valve. It was wedged tightly against the tire rim. Frustrated, I tried to pry it out with pliers, only to hear a quick “phssssp.” Not even a whole second long, and every ounce of air came out of the tire. I guess I should have taken the 90 pounds of children out of the trailer to relieve the pressure on the tire first?

Now I didn’t know what to do. The tire was far too flat to limp to the nearest gas station for air, and my wimpy air pump was getting me nowhere. I was about to give in and call my friend to cancel our dinner date when my neighbor walked over. “Why don’t you just ask Jerry to air up your tire?” Betty asked. “Oh, I could never bother him,” I quickly replied. Jerry is our professional cyclist neighbor. His bike is worth more than my car. I did NOT want to ask him to put air in the tires of my piddly little bike trailer. But as options go, mine were limited, and Betty wasn’t about to let me stay home when a solution to my problem was so obvious and close. So, with my well-intentioned neighbor watching to make sure I followed through, I walked my bike, bike trailer, and two boys over and timidly knocked on Jerry’s door. And, as is generally the case, he was more than happy to help out.

Sometimes we confuse being hip with being able to do it all ourselves, but things often come up that prevent us from getting it done. I could have stayed home (and almost did), but instead, I took a very small risk and asked for help. The payoff was great. My tires were filled by an expert, my bike trailer has never pulled more smoothly, and I got to have a fabulous supper with one of my hippest friends.

Now if I could just figure out how to make that bike helmet look hip . . .