Becoming Mama

I love fashion.  We used to have kind of a thing, me and Fashion, but then I became a busy, broke, stay-at-home mom, and Fashion broke up with me.  These days I mostly just ogle Fashion from a metaphorical tree outside its window (coughPinterest), wishing we could get back together.  I guess I'm kind of a creeper.
This week I finally came to terms with the fact that Fashion and I have actually broken up, probably for good.  On Wednesday morning we had all our windows open to enjoy the lovely autumn weather and, although Henry seemed fine, I was flat-out cold.  I kept adding layers until I finally glanced in the mirror and saw myself decked out in a pair of black and green pajama pants, a faded old flannel of Elvis' (the sleeves hang to my knees if unrolled) over a pink long-sleeved t-shirt, and a pair of red-and-white striped socks adorned with Christmas ornaments.  My hair was unbrushed and coming out of its bobby pin confinement, and my toenail polish was chipped and gnarly.  Good Lord, no wonder Fashion doesn't want to be seen with me anymore.
But you know what? My son doesn't give a rat's ass if my hair looks like a rat's nest.  He doesn't care that I've worn the same oversized flannel every cold day this year, because I like smelling Elvis on it.  He doesn't seem to notice my mismatching issues (if there were any doubt that he's Elvis' kid) or even my occasionally unbrushed-until-noon teeth.  All he cares about is that Mama is playing catch with him, or watching him dance, or reading his favorite Curious George book for the 84th time that day, or zooming cars at one another as fast as possible on the dining room table for his amusement, or fetching him another cup of milk, or wiping his sticky hands and face, or kissing his neck until he squeals. 
So, while I will probably keep creepin' on Fashion for years to come, I don't really care if we ever get back together.  I may not be a fashionista anymore (or even the owner of unstained clothing), but if I may say so I am one hell of a mom.  And that's a label I'd be glad to wear, even over Chanel, any day of the year.