Today two aunties, two babies and myself set off for a walk in downtown Toronto. Several iced lattes later we found ourselves miraculously outside the Eaton Centre. Now normally a mall on a hot summers day is my idea of hell, but we needed to cool off and one auntie was hankering after a luxury hair product, so we (stupidly) popped inside.
The lovely owner of the high-end beauty outlet noticed that Noah was lugging around a saggy nappy between his chubby thighs and kindly (or should i say foolishly) offered his adjoining salon as a nappy-changing facility if we so desired. I immediately pounced on this unexpected generous offer and was halfway through the door before realising that the accoutrements were in the other pushchair, so regretfully had to declined. It wasn't until later when Auntie Ba and i found ourselves balancing a chubbier-than-chubby chicken on the water-soaked counter of a crowded public restroom, that we realised with horror that had we taken the kindly gentleman up on his offer, than his salon would have smelt like death for an hour afterwards! (Dad, if you're reading this, i can only imagine what sorts of foods you are feeding my secondborn when i'm not around...no way should a nappy smell that bad...seriously!)
Having spent the yearly wage of tailor in a third world country on iced coffees this summer, I am now in a position to comment about the sheer incompetence of many of the barristas who profer up caffienated beverages to desperate souls such as myself. I had a disgusting cup full of ice masquerading as a coffee frappacino at the first place we visited early this morning.
I had no choice but to breastfeed an irate Noah, whilst Egg lost the plot when Auntie Mo cut his giant blueberry muffin in half. He threw it off the table, exploded in tears and started screaming loud enough to cause the table next to us to shoot daggers and rustle their papers menacingly. So I shoved Egg into his pushchair and took off down the street, hoping to put some distance between the Starbucks patrons and my maniacal son, only barely aware that one nipple had escaped and was bobbing along rather contentedly in the open air....damn maternity bras.
Speaking of which, my sisters finally mustered the nerve to confront me, their fashionista sister today, on the state of my upper body contour. With a pitying patronizing air, they decreed that my maternity bra has got to go. Apparently it does nothing for my figure and not only doesn't lift and squeeze, but sag and separates. Oh dear. Well, it's back to nursing in a strapless i suppose. Vanity knows no bounds.
And by the way, try shopping and feeling good about yourself when you have a three year old constantly worming into changing rooms and telling you that outfits look 'ugly' and that i should put my 'bum' away. Not a fan of low-rise skinny jeans is my darling Egg?
Ah well, they should be lucky they don't have a Ma who has succombed to comfort over style. Not me! I continue to wave the flag of trendy motherhood high and proud, and though my hipsters might often chafe, I have no intention of ever resorting to the dreaded comfort-wear of mothers everywhere. And you can hold me to that :)