This past weekend, I attended a baby shower; a shower I genuinely wanted to attend and not out of obligation.  The hostess had a spread of finger foods and the company of ladies was jovial and filled with pure happiness for the new mother.

As I walked home from the event, I mused over the stories women told about mothering through the decades, and felt tired, fulfilled. Once home, I was greeted with squeals of delight, tears of he took my legos and bust my house, and the rare wonderful occurrence of my husband making his specialty for dinner, curry.

I yearned to disrobe from my skinny jeans, tucked in flowy tank, orange blazer and heels.  I slopped into the bathroom, and there they were lying scrunched on the floor. Pealed from my body from waist to ankles and left in the same smashed heap, ensuring ease of  becoming one again with my skin.  The washed blue called Come, be comfortable.

Awww, my mom jeans.

In an unusual display, I picked them up in my hands and smiled. But as I inspected their color, condition, I realized to my horror, these things were covered in gross!

Down the sides on my right leg, just under the pocket, were faded swipes of red, brown, and white which could only be from the hurried cleaning of my right hand as I made shepherds pie, lasagna, and Alfredo.  On the inside by my knee was a translucent film, most likely from bubble wars, with pink purple and blue bits of lint plastered in from half a dozen loads of laundry.  Both knees were thin and stretched from bending, bending, bending to wipe a nose, pick something up, catch a kid or chastise Bert.  The left leg’s cuff was soiled with ketchup, a mishap from letting Stewie squirt some on his plate, and a dried bogey from who knows where.

But the true measure of disgusting came when I flipped my beloved over.  My bum.  Two round circles of dusty, much darker beige.  Quickly, the week recalled itself in ticking flashbacks of building a stick forest with Wheels, scooting on a dump truck with Stewie, and a failed playground pullover dare from Malcolm, in which I collapsed to the ground because I am old.

I wear these jeans.  Daily.  Everywhere. When was the last time I washed them? A week, two, three? I talk to my kids often about the importance of presenting yourself and first impressions and here I am, wandering town as a shining example of a woman who can keep everyone else in her family put together, except herself!

Glaring at them through ridiculed fingers, I quietly reminisced of what wasn’t written in their filth. There was no stain to prove I held Wheels while he cried about how frustrated writing made him.  No stain to acknowledge my being asked to interview for two jobs. No stark imprint of Malcolm sitting on my lap, showing real progress in reading and his eyes lighting up with pride. And no stain to remark how Stewie, for the first time, asked me to kiss him.

With pierced lips and a nod, I slipped them back on and wore them three more days! These jeans do their job.  They keep me comfortable. They remain soft even when I feel hard. They wrap me in protection when I don’t know the answer to a question and decide to wrestle instead of look it up. They hold their seams and keep it together. As moms, that is all we can ask for. Because from the moment we discover we are now mothers, that is all we can try to do.