The news has been full of the new "hot mom" trend. Gone are the days when a mom could get by with baggy jeans and an embellished sweatshirt. Thanks (and I use the term loosely) to the flood of sexy TV moms we now have a new ideal to live up to. I'm doomed.
It doesn't help that I've never been what you would call a fashionable mom. When my children were babies, I considered it a fashion victory if I managed to make it to the office with my clothes on right-side out. I treated baby spit-up as an accessory and developed an appreciation for elastic waistbands.
Inspired by the moms in commercials and magazines, I tried wearing smart khaki pants and crisply tailored cotton shirts, but it didn't work. When I wear khakis, I look like the UPS man. Seriously. I put on a pair of khaki pants, and people start handing me boxes.
So, I traded in the khakis and cotton shirts for what I hoped were slimming black skirts and pullovers. I thought I had evolved a sophisticated working-mom style until the day my oldest daughter, with the brutal honesty only an 11-year-old can summon, rolled her eyes and groaned, "Is everything you own black? Honestly, anyone looking into your closet would think she was in a haunted house."
"What do you suggest I do about it?" I asked. Helpful hint: Do not let your 11-year-old daughter pick out your clothes unless you want to wear neon tie-dyed belly shirts, platform flip-flops and plaid Capri pants. At the same time.
Five years later, I'm doing better, but am still not out of fashion limbo. I still own six black skirts, but hanging next to them is a kicky, lime-green cotton number. The dark pullovers have been replaced with bright coral, violet and pink, but that's as bold as it gets. I was feeling pretty good about my wardrobe when this whole "hot mom" thing exploded. Now it's not enough that I'm not dressing like the Wicked Witch of the West ‑- I have to try to be color coordinated and sexy. Over spring break, I went shopping with Oldest Daughter, whose fashion sense has mellowed only slightly with age. She picked out several dresses for me to try on, most of which involved spaghetti straps, yards of ruffles and very bright colors.
"Try this one," she said, offering me a floaty chiffon number frighteningly reminiscent of the tie-dyed belly shirt. "You'll look like a rainbow Tinkerbell!"
"I think you are vastly underestimating the enormity of my age," I warned her. "There is a point where looking like a rainbow Tinkerbell crosses the line from 'cute' into 'pathetic.'"
She rolled her eyes at me. I tried on the dress. And you know what? While my inner rainbow Tinkerbell isn't quite ready to come out, it didn't look half bad. Maybe there's something to this sexy mom thing after all.
