I just got back from a weekend holiday at the beach.

I learned something about myself there.  I learned that I am… FRUMPY.

Sooooo frumpy.  Not just frumpy compared to 20-somethings.  Get real. I wouldn’t even begin that comparison. I mean frumpy compared to other moms of my age and general life status. Seriously, if I don’t turn it around soon then FRUMP might be my destiny.

I’m gonna be honest with you – My pants are too tight.  My waist is disappearing.  I need a transformation.  QUICKLY. (If you don’t know me and are looking at the picture on my about page, believe me, those were better days….)

Frumpy is not a good place to be.  EVER. Especially if you have kids.  There is no other state of being more terrifying to a woman than “frumpy.”

Come on ladies…. admit it. We all remember growing up and fearing the mid-life mom frump.  We vowed that we would never, EVER, be that woman.  We vowed that we would not wear old sweatpants with dirt and paint stains all over them.  We took an oath that we would color our hair before the grey showed.  We would throw out the oversized t-shirts.  We promised ourselves that we would be thin, fashionable and free from wrinkles.  We hoped in our hearts that we would always be more hip than our moms were.  We PRAYED…

And now look at us.  And by us, I mean ME.  Ugh!

How do you know if you have succumbed to MOM FRUMP?  Read on….

There are varying degrees of frump, I’ve discovered.   In the beginning there is fledgling-frump. This is the stage where your hair is in need of a trim, your roots are in need of color, your pants are uncomfortably tight (requiring lots of Spanx action to keep them in place), your complexion is ashen, you’ve noticed the need to apply a lot more makeup lately,  and you have a general feeling of discomfort and unease when a hip mamma walks by.

I consider comfort-frump the second stage.  You are up at least two pant sizes but still manage to look good if you stand at a certain angle.  You cover up your arms a lot because they jiggle a little too much for your liking.  Your hair is definitely in need of professional help but you pull it back so much that it automatically forms into a ponytail by itself in the morning.  (No brushing required.) Most of your pants have elastic waistlines. (This is largely because you refuse to invest in good clothing at this size due to the fact that you have an entire wardrobe of halfway fashionable clothing in your closet.  They just won’t fit and you are being stubborn.)

And the most extreme of all – frumpity-frump.  Two words for you – BRA FAT.  Belly ROLLS. Combine that with oily un-colored hair, no makeup and WalMart clothes.  (Cause, really, who wants to buy “real” clothes at this stage?  If you do buy real clothes, you are gonna cut out the tags anyway.  No WAY are you gonna admit to being that size.) Frumpity frump, frump.

So now I am pissed.  At myself. I no sooner walked in the door from the beach when I began to devise a plan to pull myself out of the MOM FRUMP pit.  Not to sound cliche, but… I’m heading from frumpy to fabulous.

And just to keep myself on track, I’ll blog it all here.   STAY TUNED…

My husband is a good man. He puts up with A LOT.  He and I are opposite in so many ways.

He is a detail man.  An everything-has-a-place-man. An if-you-put-things-right-back-where-you-found-them-we-wouldn’t-have-this-problem-kind-of-man. I am NOT. I try. But I am more of a free spirit when it comes to organization, especially when it comes to housework. And, of course, my husband is essentially right. (Albeit in a housework-utopian-society-kind-of-way.) But, as for me, there is always SOMETHING that comes up to thwart my efforts.

Let’s go on a journey through 10 minutes of the mess and chaos of my life shall we? One example – a pair of my running shoes that has not yet made it back into the closet. So, theoretically, I should have been able to take them off my feet and toss them into the closet. Oh, I mean, lay them gently into the designated running shoe cubby. Yeah.

So here is what happened instead. I took them off…  At that precise moment, my son yelled dramatically from the other room. I sprint over to him and find that he and his brother are pounding each other over a Light Bright design. I settle the argument and notice hundreds of Light Bright pieces all over the floor. Oh dear. (Dad won’t be amused by that.) So we make a game of it and pick them up. In the middle of that the phone rings. It is my friend reminding me it is my turn to bring snack to soccer. I run down the stairs to see if I even have something that would qualify as a snack. Nope. Put it on the list of things to do. I then notice the laundry is finished. I put a new load in and take the other out and begin folding it. Kids come running downstairs and want a drink. I get them a drink. They spill juice everywhere and I clean it up. I begin emptying the dish washer because I can’t even put the juice cups away due to the overflowing sink with dirty dishes in it. I am halfway through this task when hubby comes home.

So this is what my husband sees: Kitchen a mess. Sticky floor. Laundry strewn everywhere. Light Bright pieces not picked up. (Because they decided to dump them out again while I wasn’t looking.) And then, of course, he tripped over my shoes. Yeah, those shoes. The ones that should have been put away as soon as I took them off my feet.

And then he says…. “Jen. Why don’t you just put these away right when you take them off?”