When I was in my early twenties, I bought a book called How to Be a Lady, a contemporary guide to polished presence. I thought it might look sophisticated perched next to the candles in my guest bathroom, but I also quietly hoped that it would help me define myself as a woman in the world. Eager in my professional and personal beginnings, I wanted to ensure that I had all of my bases covered.
Ten years later, I sold it at a garage sale, along with some earnest quote plaques, fancy wine bottle stoppers (is it a problem that I rarely need one?) and "going out" clothes from the same decade.
I did, however, read it. More than once. Among the author's many suggestions was the admonition that a lady never apply her makeup in public - especially not in her car.
One look at my minivan's driver's seat visor and my blatant disregard for said rule is immediately obvious.
"What ya doin', Mom?" Claire, the ultimate in backseat drivers, pipes each morning at the last stoplight before her caregiver's home. Bronzer brush in hand, I make comical wide-eyes at her in the rear view mirror.
"Putting on makeup," I offer, winking at Jenna, who giggles and pretends to wipe a brush across her chubby cheeks.
"But why?" chirps Claire. It's a common question in our house.
"Because that's what mommies do." I watch her look out the window, her thin blonde hair curling a little just under her jaw line. For a moment, her pure, childish grace overwhelms me.
I'm always uncomfortable with the makeup conversation, as I want my daughters to feel beautiful as they are, to feel strong in the world - to feel that their intellect, opinions, talents and hearts are seen and celebrated, that their worth is not tied to appearance. It's a weighty topic in a pre-7am world and one I don't know how to tackle with my under-3 pair. I swallow the heart tug and reach an arm around to tickle Claire's long legs, earning kicking laughter. The light turns green and I drive through the intersection and into the first emotional crossroad road of the day.
After sweet kisses in a friendly driveway, I'm back in the driver's seat, tuning the radio from the girls' favorite CD to a livelier song that fills the silence. As the car shifts automatically, I negotiate my own internal shifts. Mom-mode transitions into teacher-mode, complete with final applications of lipstick and eyeliner. Parked in my usual spot, watching high schoolers attempt to parallel park and wondering about what my daughters will look like on their way to school someday, I glance at the mirror. My eyes look tired - and there are lines! - but my public face is finished. It's not coincidence that mascara is the last thing applied, nor that it's waterproof.
Sometimes the weight of that driver's door seems impossible to budge. I sit in that seat, in between worlds, and breathe. When I finally emerge, I tackle the day, carrying my girls' voices in my head, seeking to give others' children the best of me, as I would want the best for my own. I engage, question and challenge teenagers for eight hours, seeing now, with new eyes, the children they once were behind the stubble, acne and fake tans. I often laughingly, achingly, wonder how I can handle 150 of them with relative ease, but be brought to my knees by one two-year-old. At the final bell, after a last scurry to the bathroom where I can go in peace, I'm back in the driver's seat: one final song for Mom before the chorus of toddler chatter envelopes the car.
Home again, the shifts continue. Amid the flurry of dog, bags, potty, dinner, baths, books, and bed, I fight my way to find the groove, learning, sometimes in stumbling steps, how to do the dance of motherhood. It's good that I have a patient audience and lots of sticky, sweaty, sweet hugs along the way.
End of day, one final time in front the bathroom mirror, I look at a face life-stripped of makeup and picture the next morning. No matter how early that alarm is, inevitably I'll be finishing my face in the car. Yes, I'll be breaking a Lady rule, but I'm not as nervous about those as I once was. I am not perfect...but I am loved perfectly.
By two little girls, one slobbery dog and one amazing, best-friend-of-a-husband.
From my view in the driver's seat, that's a pretty great place to be.
