You know, immediately after welcoming Ruth into this world, I felt high on life (albeit a bit depleted). I was physically so relieved to be done and thought I was glowing. As people took my photo, I remember thinking, “Oh that shot of me is going to be a good one. Oh yeah, that one’s even better. Man, I’m freaking bursting with the new mama glow!” I didn’t even ask to look at it on the camera to ensure of said success, I was so confident. (And let’s be frank, if I were on my deathbed and someone took a photo of me as I was being given the last rites, I’d still ask to see how that shot looked before actually dying.)

So yeah, I was feeling pretty glowy.

Then I made the mistake of scrolling through my cousin’s photos from a few months prior. I was like, Oh look at K in this photo. She must be resting before heading out on a dinner date with her hubby.

And then I cussed.

What. The. Heck. (insert proper cuss word here.) She is still in the hospital in this photo!

Let’s do a little comparison of our afterbirth photos, shall we? (Gross. I hate the word afterbirth.)

First off, I gave birth at home. At home, people. Do you know what that means? No need for a hospital bag. Complete access to my entire wardrobe. So why exactly am I wearing a wrinkled ratty old t-shirt that probably had been holed up in the corner of the room for the past 6 months. “Oh this will look darling, honey. Let me slip this on for my first ever photo with Ruthie.” I never thought a hospital gown could look so fancy.

And aren’t I a mere 2 steps from my bathroom? You know, the place where you keep brushes and combs and such? For the love of all that is good and holy, could someone please tame that gray mess and at least give me a side part? I’m pretty sure K went to have her hair done while in the throes of labor, right? Someone had better say right.

Last but not least, my war paint. I don’t know why I didn’t get the same creamy skin genes as K, it’s pretty unfair. But that’s no reason not to throw on a little cover-up, especially when you know photo-ops are eminent.

Sigh.

I guess little Ruth needs to get used to her awkward, ratty t-shirt wearing, messed up hair, wrinkly mom. It’s certainly not going to get any better. In fact, considering I’ve worn pretty much the same outfit, kept my hair thrown back, and have let my wrinkles shine for all to see, it looks like things have gotten disconcertedly worse.

My goal this week: Find ratty t-shirt in corner from only three months prior. But only if company is coming over.