I'm so fancy.

Look at me walking down the street. I'm a picture of perfection in my motherhood role.

My pants are too tight and I'm hobbling on my very cracked feet. I don't remember the last time I did my hair. I'm probably not wearing deodorant and I may have moisturised part of my face. Fairly certain there's spew on my shoulder, but I'm past caring. I need a bra that fits, so don't look too closely at the sweater cows. The bags under my eyes are dark and full.

My son is swinging his gorgeous legs in the pram. He's happy, pointing to the street lights and gazing up and me with a big grin. He is dressed up cosy and warm in the fresh, cold air.

I have the time. I get enough sleep. I have a happy, independent baby.

They say self love and self care go hand in hand. Perhaps that's my problem. If I can avoid the mirror for long enough, I'll be right. 

Luckily my son and husband love me enough to cover the physical and emotional neglect, I'm so very guilty of.

I'll get to me at some point. One day at a time. For now I'm doing it all, for the tiny love.