Gonna blog for #NetflixStreamTeam today. And also, be a bit mushy. You’ve been warned.
As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.
Y’all. I don’t much care for Mother’s Day.
There. I said it.
I know. It sounds all wicked stepmothery of me, doesn’t it? Well, maybe I should embrace this role. The wicked stepmother should get props, I think, for at least being practical. She has a household to run and two daughters who have terrible social skills. She is on survival mode, people.
And then she has the sweetie pie, Cinderella, who has befriended vermin and always has good hair. It’s WEIRD.
It’s also possible I am reading a bit too much into this whole story, but you know, I never promised you a neurotic-free post.
Well, and then, there’s also this:
Mother’s Day Expectations:
![family breakfast in bed boy reading newspaper]()
- Really, small blonde? How’s that stocks section? And, don’t you think that’s enough carbs, mommah?
Mother’s Day Reality:
I’m gonna find a sock with macaroni and cheese in it under the bunk bed. And I’m gonna have to clean it.
Because, crazy does not wait.
Even on Mother’s Day.
Ok, so this Mother’s Day, my beloved decided to take me dress shopping. I have an actual book signing coming up, in which I will be rubbing shoulders with REAL AUTHORS OH MY WORD (Pun? See it? I’m good) and I need to look legit. And smart. And bookish. And, like I know what I’m doing, and also thin.
Here’s how it all went down:
Hubs: Let’s go Dress Shopping for Mother’s Day!
Small boys: US TOO US TOO US TOOOOOOO
Momsie: Lord. Give me strength.
I know, right? Mother’s Day is not for the faint at heart.
So, there I am, at a changing room with mirrors all up in my business and fluorescent lighting and my heavens, why don’t we just shine a spotlight on me while we’re at it, right? And I am actually trying to discuss dress sizes with the hubster, which is demoralizing, and I kinda just want to collapse and ask for a sack cloth and ashes and call it done.
And then, Red suggests this purple number because he loves da purples. And I eye it. (I am out of the changing room at this point and dressed – I know I changed locations and didn’t want you to get confused and visualize me in my underwear. Me, IN my underwear underneath all those lights with the mirrors crowding around me was enough visuals for me – you don’t need to go there with me. Poor dears.)
So, I grab the purple dress even though it isn’t really anything I would ever wear, because Red is now cheeping like a small bird, “Dis one! Dis one mommah! It’s der purples! PURPLE!!!!!!” and I fear all the women in the store will start to think he’s special.
And then I try it on. (We’re back in the changing room.) And I blink. And come out of the changing room.
And all three boys (hubs included) smile. Blonde says, “Whoa. Dude. That’s NICE. You’re so pretty, momma!”
And I look in the mirrors, and tell them (the mirrors, not the boys), “Back OFF shiny ones! And behold. I AM pretty! No. Not that. I am HOT.”
It’s possible I embellished this with a quick hair toss. The boys all gasped and applauded.
And that’s how I now love Mother’s Day.
Now, how, you ask, does Netflix tie in to all of this? Well, because. Cinderella. Duh.
I know. It’s mushy. Stay with me. This is not normally my thing, the mush, but it has to be said.
Moms get lost under a layer of snot, whining, and malaise. We find sweatpants by the bed as we jump up to get the six-year-old to school on time, and we wear them with pride because our uniform merits comfort and stretch. We don’t mind, really, that we have a coffee stain on our t-shirt right smack where one should not be looking at our t-shirt. We embrace the coffee stain. “I love you, coffee stain,” we say, as we sashay down the drive way. “You are my piece of flair for the day.” We do all this for the most part. But lately, me with my coffee stains and my flair? I had been feeling a little bit… invisible.
Anyhow. When I stood under all those lights with the mirrors snickering, I put on that dress, and for a moment the darn mirrors got all misty. Or it was my eyes. And I pushed back my hair and tilted my head, and I felt VISIBLE. And gorgeous. And it wasn’t just the dress. The dress was just a… portal. It helped me see Me.
We all love Cinderella stories, because we know they are our own stories too. We love them because our wrinkled hearts need ironing out too every once in a while. And, Netflix has a slew of these movies that lift and tuck the tired soul. Movies like:
and…
and…
But, my favorite, hands down, all time bestest Cinderella movie, besides the one with Gus Gus? Well, this one:
It’s the real deal. Watch it some night when you have found yourself surrounded by toddlers and chaos for just a little bit too long for your liking. Once the cherubs are asleep, fix yourself a chocolate malted, some popcorn, and put your feet up. We all have a bit of Cinderella inside of us, because, after all, we all have days where we have to clean macaroni and cheese out of places no one should ever have to.
And we all have a fairy godmother. It’s the friend who takes us to get a pedicure and listens while we explain that we can’t, we just can’t do another day of laundry and crazy and strange stains in the bathroom. Or, it’s our sister who sends us texts that make us laugh when we have, once again, managed to make dinner a mediocre mess. Or, it’s even our husband who rubs our feet while we watch Netflix, and we renew and recharge for another day of Momhood.
Rock on, mommas. Be brave. Find your inner Cinderella. And:
