The revitalizing spark of femininity I felt on our date showed me that I need to prioritize more empowering self-care into my life.
I, like pretty much every other mother on the planet (except for maybe Kim K), find that their self-care plummets when they become mothers.
Although I ultimately partnered with and married a man, I still identify as a queer femme, as I have for my adult life.
Regardless of my partners or paramours, my femme identity was always first and foremost about me. Embracing, celebrating, and flaunting my femininity made me feel hugely empowered.
For a working-class White woman with a history of child sexual abuse and subsequent mental and physical health problems, this feeling of empowerment was enormous. Heels, skirts, and lipstick were my armor against the world; my femme identity my talisman.
When I became a mother, the ways I expressed my femininity became severely compromised. Other than my signature requisite DIY manicures, I no longer had the time or energy to engage my femininity as I had before. Days without showers only compounded the negative effects of getting a few hours of sleep nightly.
The relentless work of breastfeeding a newborn consumed all of my time. Whatever time I could squirrel away alone was spent sleeping, spending time with my partner, and just being able to sit and be.
Even if I had been able to find the time or energy, what would be the point? If I had only gotten gussied up at home, it could still be ruined by a diaper blowout, projectile spit-up, or any other number of bodily fluids.
Merciless exhaustion, intense isolation, and the loss of anything resembling free time meant my femininity fell by the wayside.
My identity took on a similar pallor.
I still remember the first time I wore makeup after my daughter was born. It happened the morning I blew my own new-mother mind: I somehow successfully carried my sleeping, suckling newborn daughter to the toilet where I somehow managed to have a BM without waking her up, falling off the toilet, or getting shit on myself.
The bodily contortions and surrealism of it all made me want to literally scream at people about the absurd thing I had just done. But, for as unforgettable and weird as that experience was, wearing mascara for the first time as a mother is equally memorable.
After getting the baby down, I vividly recall standing in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at myself as I’d done countless times as a childless person. As myself. As the woman I’d always been until days before. It was like running into an identical twin I never knew I had — the same, so well-known, yet so alien and unfamiliar face.
I happened upon a tube of mascara and decided to put some on. I went through the routine movement of pulling the wand through my lashes. As I watched them fan out flirtatiously over the comically huge bags under my eyes, I caught a flash of recognition in my reflection.
I missed the hard-won self confidence my femme identity afforded me. Having a toddler meant having an unequivocally different life.
While I think it’s safe to say that motherhood fundamentally and profoundly changes lives, it’s also true some people adjust to it more easily than others. Between the stress of unemployment, the dissolution of various friendships (when they say you find out who your real friends are when you become a parent, they’re right), crippling postpartum depression and anxiety that nearly drove me to suicide, and the unending work of Keeping My Child Alive, every day was grueling. Each one progressively harder and more unbearable than the one before it — until my best friend saw to it that I went to see a doctor.
With the help of time, therapy, and medication, I eventually settled into my new life and worked to create and carve out a new identity for myself.
But deep down, I felt completely neutered; I routinely felt the nostalgic tug of my old femme self. I missed the hard-won self confidence my femme identity afforded me. Having a toddler meant having an unequivocally different life.
There was no time or place for hot rollers, liquid eyeliner, dresses, or heels, which I did for myself with and without a date — but there were certainly no hot dates. None of this was feasible when there are always meals to cook, laundry to do, dogs to walk, messes to clean, and the like.
Not when two hours a day are devoted to the commute that enables you to get to work to support your family. Not when the only time you have to work out to stave off both your depression and anxiety and also your self-loathing (which has gotten worse since pregnancy and childbirth) is 5 AM and it can’t be squeezed in at another time.
Not when you have to do your own personal and freelance writing after the baby is asleep at the end of your work day. Not when your only time to sit with your partner and just be together is in the wee hours before the baby wakes and the late ones after she’s already gone to sleep.
Not when there’s no family to watch the kid, you lack the money for a babysitter, and you only have a few friends who will not flake out on you if you ask them to babysit.
Not when you live paycheck to paycheck, with little-to-no help, as a one-income family.
I recently had a real date with my husband — one that didn’t involve sweatpants and Netflix. My best friend agreed to babysit, and in preparation for the evening, I spent real time showering, shaving, moisturizing, and making myself up before I went out.
Though the entire process lasted less than an hour, it felt profanely decadent because I haven’t had that experience since my daughter was born nearly three years ago.
Our date was perfection. This wasn’t just because we were outside of our home — in public, after dark! — or that we laughed and flirted and our conversation didn’t involve endless to-do lists or our child.
It was because I looked and felt more like myself than I have in years. It was also because I was afforded the time to engage in the particularly empowering self-care I used to rely on before I became a mother. And I, like pretty much every other mother on the planet (except for maybe Kim K), find that their self-care plummets upon motherhood.
As we took our second-ever Uber home (marveling all the while at how cosmopolitan and cool we were), I worried about when the next time I’d be able to feel this good again might be. Hopefully not another turn (or multiple turns) around the sun.
How could I harness this joy and inject it into my current life?
I realized that embracing or indulging my flagrant femininity doesn’t have to be reserved for “date night,” and quite frankly, I can’t afford to let it. The revitalizing spark of femininity I felt on our date showed me that I need to prioritize more empowering self-care into my life.
And I know as a mother, that’s something that will likely need to be done flexibly, because even with planning, our tomorrows can turn on a dime.
Will that mean wearing red lipstick when I’m home cleaning, watching the baby, and cleaning up potty training messes? Teal eyeliner has never hindered my writing progress. Perhaps I can Swiffer in my favorite, loneliest pair of heels. Who knows?
What I do know is that I feel empowered by deeming it so and having a sense of humor and adventure about how it will unfold.
Oh, and I am so thankful this epiphany didn’t involve simultaneous pooping and breastfeeding.
