Yoga pants and double chins; the art of my Mommy style

     I have spent the better part of the last few months trying to recover the person that existed before and in between each of my five pregnancies. I have fond memories of someone that fit in all her jeans, did not cringe when she looked at pictures of herself and even had hair that was all one color. I tried to explain this attempted transformation to my muddled husband.

 "I just don't want to look like a mom. You know what I mean?"

    He had no idea what I meant but continued to support me on my quest, nonetheless. He never asked why getting my hair done takes three hours (although, in truth, I don't know the answer either) and didn't flinch when I said, "you're on breakfast duty; I'm going to work out." He just kept telling me how much he loves the way I look and who I am. "Hogwash," I told him and left for the gym.
    Then, as I was literally running home after getting my hair cut and colored, new locks flying behind me in the wind, I had a realization. I am a mom. Why was I trying so hard to look like someone else? I have earned the right to wear yoga pants all day, the right to be just a little bit chubby, if I so desire.  I am Mom. I am the one who gets called first for every scrape, the one who gets all the exciting information right off the bus, the one who holds hair while kids get sick, the one who gets the joy of having these five little beings depend mostly on me.
     So, who, exactly was I running from and who, exactly was I running towards? Chasing someone I used to be seemed pointless, when I really thought about it. Sure, that mom of two I was who had the time to work out for two hours each day and still give enough love to everyone was great. Shopping for clothes was easy and I didn't have to hold a child just so in pictures to camouflage that extra chin that appeared sometime between #4 and #5.  However, that person, or at least parts of her are gone, just like that time is.
     There might come a day, a while from now, when all of my children are older and slightly less needy on an hourly basis and I can take that long Sunday marathon run that I love. But for now, I am more than content to run my four mile route, speeding up the last half mile because I know people will be looking out the window waiting for me: to make lunch, to tell me a joke that's not funny, to be there with them. And, when I think about it, there is exactly where I want to be too, looking like who I am: Mom.