Guest Post: The Crisis of Being A Hot Mom With Daughters
Navigating body confidence and sexy dressing in the presence of young minds.
To say I’m excited for this week’s letter is the understatement of a lifetime. We have a GUEST EDITOR this week, and it’s someone I worked with very closely at InStyle. She is an unbelievably talented writer, she’s so bright and quick and kind, and she has two girls and lives in Brooklyn. Her name is Alison Fucking Syrett, and I adore her. I caught up with her when I was in NY back in Feb, and we started chatting about feeling hotter and better now, after kids, than ever before. She actually pitched me on this story, which I cannot believe because she is the real deal, and then wrote it, and then I read it, and I felt happy, sad, funny, samesies, everything. I relate and resonate with every layer of this story - just you wait… you’re in for a really good one. Alison, ILY.
You know mama… you can change before coming back for the brunch.
This declaration from my five-year-old daughter is so wickedly pointed, like a precise little dart thrown to hit wear it hurts, that it catches me off guard, and I begin laughing with surprise. I’m walking her to school, and we’re in the midst of discussing a special Mother’s Day event with her class that I’m returning for in the late afternoon. I ask what’s wrong with my outfit in-between amused snorts, gesturing loosely at my clothes: a pair of loose black leather trousers and a cropped cap sleeve cotton sweater in a caramelized tan. Not enough color perhaps?
She looks at me long and hard before telling me that my shirt is too short — apparently the other mothers wear dresses or “tops that are longer.” I freeze and stop giggling. Anger, embarrassment, confusion, hurt all begin rising to the base of my throat as I try to stay composed. Pre-kindergarteners don’t, after all, accumulate random judgements about how one displays their body. But her criticism also feels personal. Getting to a place where I’m okay with showing a swath of bare skin around my midriff has been a long and difficult process, and being called out by my kid in the middle of the street makes me feel like my biggest insecurities are being publicly announced.
Like, who do I think I am? Who am I trying to be?
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