Hot Dad vs the Swamp Monster

What is this? No, no, no. A thousand times. No.

There’s a hot dad at the park.

There are never hot dads at the park, and that’s just the way I like it. I already have a hot dad in my life, and he’s the one who loves me so much he painted my toenails when I was pregnant and kisses me when I haven’t brushed my teeth. I didn’t have any interest in appealing to this other “Hot Dad,” who probably rolled out of bed, into the shower, fell into yesterday’s t-shirt and shorts, and still left the house looking like an Abercrombie model. So why I was I suddenly unnerved and annoyed at his arrival at the park that is usually, gloriously, Hot Dad-Free?

Because being in the presence of such an effortlessly beautiful human shone a harsh, ultra-HD light on my painful transition into my second year of motherhood: I have become a swamp monster.

Picture it: like a caricature straight out of Ren and Stimpy, there were mushrooms growing between my toes, an oil slick on my head, purple bags beneath bloodshot eyes, and green smoke emanating from my armpits. The worst part was, I tried today. I really did. For Christsakes, I even wore a bra, which my poor neighbors can attest doesn’t happen often.

Trying lately was like polishing a turd—it might sparkle, but it still stinks because it’s still, after all, crap. Despite my best efforts, in the shadow of Mr. Abercrombie, I wanted to slink back to the depths of the swamp from whence I came, and was grateful that my son was completely uninterested in meeting his little boy so I didn’t have to pretend like being in “Hot Dad’s” presence wasn’t utterly devastating. I would try harder tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d remember to put deodorant on after my walk, as well as before, and wear a hat if my hair was greasy again. Tomorrow I’d—

Probably be exactly the same mess I was today.

Ever watch videos of zookeepers wrangling baby pandas? That’s what it’s like “getting ready” with a one-year-old. My white-haired angel is either two seconds from toppling head-first into the empty tub as he reaches for a bottle of shampoo or holding onto my legs and screaming because I haven’t looked at him in ten-and-a-half seconds, so he’s certain I’ll forget him forever (this must be a biological mechanism; I have no other explanation for it). On the rare occasion that I manage to run a comb through my hair and slap on some eyeshadow and Carmex, I flash a smile at the guy handing me an iced mocha in today’s drive-thru line and realize I forgot to brush my teeth.

Again.

Tomorrow, in all its potential for greatness, the stubble on my legs—which today was barely noticeable—will be thicker and darker, so if I want to wear shorts in the summer heat, I’ll have to turn up my nose and pretend I don’t care if Hot Dad or anyone else notices the fur…which is only slightly less obvious than the funk following in my wake that will best the natural deodorant no matter how many times I rub the stick beneath my arms.

Sadly, I do care. I’m not so evolved that prancing around unshaven, braless, in full funk, feels liberating. It doesn’t. It’s usually just the best I can do.

I avoid Mr. Abercrombie, with his stainless shirt and sweatless brow, and retreat to the safety of my own backyard where the neighbors are used to the hairy beast that roams our side of the fence, and the “Hot Dad” that loved me before he was a hot dad and before I became this, waits to give me a kiss and tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t believe him, but it doesn’t matter. His adoration despite my condition renews my optimism. Maybe it’s not that bad (it is), and maybe tomorrow I’ll chip away at another layer of filth, recover another piece of the lost art of “getting ready.”

Maybe. For my own sake—and yours—I hope so.