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Parents

Why I Love My Mom Jeans

You are da bomb. I will never judge you or anyone who wears you ever again.

It’s almost Christmas! Hallelujah! But let’s be real. I am so tired of Christmas. I feel like it has been here since Halloween. I am over Christmas carols and my jacked-up Christmas tree with 75 percent working lights and the pictures of the Elf on the Shelf and my toddler trying to unwrap all the presents under the tree.

So instead of talking about Christmas, I am going to talk about something totally unrelated – mom jeans. I think we could all use a break from Christmas, right?

Mom jeans have really gotten a bad rap in the last 20 years. They have been judged and made fun of and even got their own skit on Saturday Night Live that labeled them as extremely uncool.

But let’s be realistic. Mom jeans exist for a reason. They are so damn comfortable. They hold everything in. You can bend over in them without your butt crack showing. Your kid can drool all over them and they look good as new. Your newborn can projectile poop onto your mom jeans and it will slide off like rain on a car that was just covered in a layer of Rain-X.

If I could punch 25-year-old me in the face, I would. I said so many horrible things about moms and how they raised their kids. I judged moms that I saw at the grocery store in their mom jeans and over-sized sweatshirts. I would say, “I will never let my kid look that dirty and throw a tantrum on the floor of Kroger while wearing a pair of hideous jeans that offer normal coverage.” Then I would march off in my designer jeans with a five-inch inseam and $300 boots to the wine and spirits store to get champagne for brunch.

Let’s fast forward five years. I went to Kroger on Sunday in my mom jeans and a sweatshirt that was labeled Chi Omega Homecoming 2006. I had zero makeup on. My top knot would have stayed on top of the head if I took my ponytail holder out because I hadn’t washed my hair in a ridiculous number of days. Henry was a hot mess with snot running down his face. I promised myself that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew but ran into approximately three people I hadn’t seen in five years.

As I was talking to them Henry laid down on the floor and cried because I wouldn’t let him eat the Goldfish I just put in the cart. I attempted to peel him off the floor while maintaining my conversation and acting like I had my shit together. I saw a cute 20-something with fresh highlights and perfect makeup giving me the side eye while heading to the cash register in her tiny jeans. I wanted to whisper “This is your future!” to her but thought that would probably make me super creepy.

Let’s go to where it all started. When I was pregnant with Henry everything started to spread out. I was horrified. I remember trying to zip my jeans at about 12 weeks pregnant and crying because I couldn’t get them up. I had to move onto maternity jeans.

HOLY SHIT, they were life changing! They had the big fabric band that went all the way over your belly. They were as comfortable as clothes could be while carrying a nine-pound human in your uterus.

I had Henry and lived in pajama pants for about four weeks during maternity leave. Then it was time to re-enter the real world. I don’t know why at one month postpartum I tried to fit in my pre-baby jeans. I blame the Kardashians for my unrealistic expectations. Rich assholes. I couldn’t even get them over my thighs. For the 98th time in the last year, I sat on the edge of the bed and cried. After that I most likely went to Burger King and ate my feelings away.

It took me about six months, but I finally got back to my pre-baby shape. It was not easy, but that is a story for another time. I was so excited when I finally got back into my old jeans! They zipped and I rejoiced! I took pictures and probably overshared on Facebook and texted my mom and called my husband and told my infant how happy I was.

Then, I sat down in those jeans. I pulled them up in the back but realized that no matter what, my hips were never going to be narrow again and I would have permanent plumber’s crack.

Something had to give, and hopefully it wouldn’t be the fabric on those tiny pants. I was extremely uncomfortable. I leaned over to pick the baby up and felt a breeze on my backside. WHY? Why were these jeans so awful and tiny and uncomfortable and unrealistic? I felt like they were made for a Barbie.

That day I headed to TJMaxx and bought my first pair of true mom jeans. I am 98 percent sure they were Levis. I remember trying them on and thinking how comfortable they were. I bent over and I didn’t feel a breeze. I did a couple jumping jacks and nothing fell out. If I had put on a cat sweatshirt I would have fit right in at the Cracker Barrel country store on a Sunday afternoon. Life was good.

So I apologize to you mom jeans. You are da bomb. I will never judge you or anyone who wears you ever again. And 20-something who might be reading this – beware! One day you will find yourself in a dressing room with 10 pairs of Levis rejoicing.

Follow my blog at HashtagMomFail.com!