GUEST BLOG POST: New Mom, New Image: a Mommy Makeover by Emily Roy

[photo: Janice (l) and Emily (r)]

After having four babies in five years, nursing for a total of forty-seven months and getting up at least once during the night for six years, I was groggy, saggy and stretched, to say the least. I hardly even felt like myself anymore. And every time I stepped out the door, I couldn’t understand how other moms looked so put together; they looked human, and I felt like a zombie! What were they doing to look so comfortable in their new mommy skin that I was missing?

For starters, they were probably showering, but upon further inspection, I noticed a few things about these moms who looked like real people. I was surprised to discover that it actually wasn’t as complicated or time consuming as the end result appeared. So here is a quick list of the best things you can do for yourself to reclaim a little of the woman you still are:

• Know your proportions. The end goal is always to create an hourglass shape.

• Don’t wear things that are too tight (the sausage effect – not good)…Or too loose (the eternally pregnant effect–also not good). If you like comfy clothes, go for softer fabrics, cute flats, even a sundress.

• Get a sitter before you shop (if only Ikea sold clothes!). Don’t even try a serious shopping trip with your kids. You’ll end up with just half an outfit before someone melts down.

• Be prepared. Don’t shop for an event last minute, be ready with an outfit for a bridal shower, date night, etc. You will save yourself money, frustration and probably rescue yourself from an outfit you don’t like.

• Wear a ponytail, just make it a cute one–put a little braid in front, or part your hair before putting it back into a low ponytail.

• If you’re hair is short, be honest with yourself: is it working for you? It may be time to consult with a stylist for some suggestions (I know, it feels like you’re cheating on your current stylist but a mom’s gotta look good!). And keep up on your haircuts; schedule your next appointment as you leave the salon.

• Keep your lip gloss handy. For me, this means they are everywhere: glove box, junk drawer, the Barbie castle, etc.

• Accessorize, accessorize, accessorize. You will instantly look like you have it more together than you do! And scarves and long necklaces can have a slimming effect when used to create a vertical line down your chest.

• Expand your wardrobe beyond jeans. This was a hard one for me because I love my jeans, but I have discovered dresses which brings me to my last tip…

• Try a dress! They are generally more forgiving to your figure and they can easily be dressed up or down. An empire waist can hide a little leftover baby weight and you’ll feel feminine even if you’re playing cars with your two year old!

(Lisa - before)

Recently I worked with Janice Hurley-Trailor, The Image Expert, on a makeover of a new mom Lisa. Lisa owns a gym, teaches gymnastics and dotes on her two small children. Needless to say, her attire tends to consist of workout clothes!

Janice put her in soft gray cords with similarly colored boots, a layered long sleeved shirt under a tank with a belt and a sassy, face-flattering haircut. Her earrings are small so as not to overwhelm her delicate face, layering her shirts adds interest and sophistication (plus it extends a summer tank into fall), the belt adds definition and the boots lengthen her legs. Goodbye workout mama, hello hot mama!

(Lisa - after)

These are relatively simple, time-friendly ideas that any mom can implement even in the most chaotic days of early motherhood. Honestly, the hardest part is remembering that even as moms we deserve to turn a little of that love and attention we give to our children back on ourselves.

Oh and do shower—It really goes a long way toward feeling wholly human and not just a receptacle for spit-up, snot and drool!

EMILY ROY
Copy editor turned mother of four in five years, Emily Roy is just now coming up for air. She has led over a hundred moms as Director of Mom's Group at her local church in Tacoma, WA. Roy has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to website text to poetry published in The Trillium. She has a BA from the University of Washington, Tacoma in Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences with a Concentration in Arts, Media and Culture. Between laundry and hugs, she trains for triathlons and patience. She is currently at work on a new book on makeovers for new moms with image expert, Janice Hurley-Trailor.

JANICE HURLEY-TRAILOR
Janice Hurley-Trailor is an image expert with 25 years of experience. She has worked with professional practices, businesses, and government agencies. She is the mother of four grown children and grandmother to seven.  Visit http://www.janicehurleytrailor.com/.

Infertility and Friends -- by Laura

I spent five years trying to get pregnant. Desperately. It was the most painful thing I have ever been through, and when the test finally came back positive, the world seemed like and all-you-can-eat buffet of joy. But not everybody was happy for me. And I understand why.

When I was trying to get pregnant, it seemed like everyone else in the world could get pregnant but me. Every other month I was pushing a shopping cart through Babies-R-Us, until I just couldn’t even drive past the exit without wanting to throw up in my mouth. There was only one other person in my life who could not get pregnant. One of my best friends. I’ll call her Liz. We had been friends for over 15 years, and when we were together, we laughed like mad women. And our lives seem to parallel in so many ways, so when we both started trying to have children, we believed were in it together, and together we would triumph.

At first we were sort of private about our attempts. We wanted to endure the dreaded two-week wait alone. But we went through the same treatments at almost the exact same time. We even had the same doctor for the first two rounds of IVF. But as we continued our treatments, Liz became more and more bitter and more and more competitive. She was a wealthy woman, so she could afford to do more rounds of IVF and go to private clinics with more personalized care. I knew my shots were limited, so I plowed through books, trolled the Internet, and joined an infertility support group to gather as much information as I could. When I would present my findings to her over coffee, she called me obsessed and dismissed the conversation.

Liz was right. I was obsessed. If you want to get pregnant when you’re 40, you have to be. So I was, and I did.

There came a day when I had to tell Liz I was pregnant, and I knew I wanted to tell her in a good way. I wanted to tell her before I told my other friends so she would not hear it second hand. I wanted to tell her quietly and in person when her husband was there so he could be there to support her. I wanted to be calm and quick about it, and make sure the conversation shifted to other things at the right time. I practiced. My husband shook his head.

The right time came to tell her. It was a late November morning, and I had just hit the three-month mark. I drove an hour to her house, brought her muffins, drank tea and sat in her kitchen chatting about nothing in particular. Just catching up. Then when the muffins were eaten and the tea finished, I did it. “I’m pregnant,” I said. I could hear her heart break. I knew that feeling. I had sat where she sat many times over the last five years. It is miserable. It’s as if a sheet of shame has settled on the heart because you know you are supposed to be happy. You know you are, but all you want to do is curl up in the corner and cry.

Liz stammered. And stuttered. And I could see her face flush while her mind raced. She kept swallowing even though the tea was long gone. Her husband came in the room and placed a hand on her shoulder. I began to talk quickly. I felt like I needed to apologize, and I remember saying how hard it had all been and that I was still scared. And it was going to be a rough pregnancy with twins. “Twins?” she said. “You have twins?” And I could feel her world fall out from under her.

I changed the subject to her. To her adoption process. To her job. And then I said I had to go. She was relieved. And when we said goodbye, there were no congratulations from her. There was no more acknowledgment. I didn’t expect there to be.

After that day, she did not reply to my emails. She did not return my phone calls. She sent me a Christmas card but did not sign her name. I did receive a mass email from her four months later that she had successfully adopted a baby girl. I sent her a note congratulating her and wishing her the greatest happiness, but I never heard back.

To say I was hurt and angry about it is an understatement. At the same time, I knew exactly how she felt. I hoped that with the adoption of her daughter that somehow we could mend things. That her heart would be put back together. I was going to reach out and send her an email, but then my husband said, “Why would you want to reconnect with someone who treated you so badly while you tried to get pregnant and then was unhappy for you when you did?”

He had a good point. But there are other things to consider. Infertility brings out the worst in people. It’s a sad, sad thing. It’s grotesquely painful. Did she act badly? Sure. Would I have done the same thing? I don’t think so. My friendships are precious.

Perhaps it is time to let go. Perhaps there wasn’t the friendship there that I believed was there. But if I let my heart speak, it has its own take on the situation. It wants to pick up the phone and call her, so we can laugh the way we used to. It wants to see an email from her in my inbox with one of her silly titles. It would even take a Christmas card she didn’t bother to sign.

The Age of Motherhood -- by Laura

Last week I turned 45. I have never shied away from stating how I old I am, but on my birthday something happened that made me lie for the first time. I was in Central Park with my 10-month old twins taking a break from my jog when a woman in her 60s approached and ogled the boys as they slept in the stroller.
“Isn’t being a grandmother the best?” she asked.
“I’m actually their mother,” I said. “Not their grandmother.”
She was embarrassed and apologized, but I stopped her and explained it was OK. I have a crown of silver hair; I was disheveled from exercising. It was a natural mistake.
“Well, women are having babies at older ages these days,” she said.
We chatted briefly then she asked the question I knew she would: “So exactly how old are you?”
Before I could think I told her I was 40. Only 40.
On the way home I stopped at the drug store to look at hair color, and when I got to the apartment I went online and ordered $200 worth of skin care products. I also got down on the alphabet mat in the playroom and did 100 sit-ups and then 100 bicycle kicks, which left me barely able to move the next day.
I am embarrassed at being an older mom at times. I feel out of place with orthopedic inserts in my shoes, gray hair, glasses, and a heavier, slower body as I push a twin stroller down the sidewalk among the 20-year old nannies and the fit, fashionable, younger Manhattan mothers. And I am embarrassed that I am embarrassed by it. At my age I should know better. There are so many pluses to being an older mom – far more pluses than minuses.
But the real reason for the discomfort with my age is not just my crepe paper eyelids or the cricks in my back and ankles. It’s the time. If what I said were true, if I were only 40, I would have five more years – five more years of time at my disposal with my sons and husband. My lie wasn’t just a lie. It was a wish. A sincere wish.
While I write this, my father is struggling with declining health. As an older parent himself, he made a conscientious effort to be a fit man. My father learned to rock climb when he was 40. He hiked all over the Rocky Mountains with his children. He played tennis four or five times a week. But in spite of his excellent health and diet, he didn’t get a choice whether or not he got Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. For several years now, he is not able to participate in his own life, much less mine, and he has never met my boys. Yet if he did meet them, he wouldn’t know them because in spite of his best efforts to stick around and be there for his grandchildren, a horrible disease is scrambling his brain.
Even more sorrowful to me is that my sons won’t get to know the kind, quiet man who taught me the secrets of happiness: dogs, books, tomatoes, and camping. Lyle and Wyatt won’t have the chance to try to keep up with his long stride as he winds his way over the trails to the top of a mountain to watch the sunrise. They won’t hear his steady voice singing a cowboy song as he strums his guitar.
Some of my life’s greatest moments have been spending time with my father as an adult – two grownups together with a shared history and a deep understanding. I love that my father stuck around long enough see who I turned out to be, and he genuinely admires who he sees when he looks at me. I want to look at my children like that through the hallmarks of their lives. But when they are entering adulthood, which I believe is the best part of life, I will be coming to the sunset of mine. Thanks to my advanced maternal age, I may not get to meet the life partners they choose. If they wait as I did, I may not get to meet their children. I may very well miss seeing them achieve the things in life that can make them happy, whole, fulfilled human beings.
The next time someone asks me if I am the boy’s grandmother, I will try to be more grounded. I will tell myself I can live with the liver spots, the lines around my mouth, and the impending bifocals. But what will send me spinning is the thought of missing out on a minute of my boys’ lives. By waiting these extra years to have children, I am afraid I am going to have to lose a few years on the other end. And that kills me. Because this thing called motherhood is a wellspring of happiness, wisdom, pain, ache, joy and longing, and as Lyle and Wyatt grow through life, I don’t want to miss a thing. Not a single, tiny moment lost. The bitter. And the sweet.