Oh how the mighty shoe falls

Now that I am older and a mom, I feel like my style has gone out the window. I haven’t traded in my dress pants for lululemons, but I have traded in my stilettos for more practical ballet flats.

Out for lunch the other day, I sat talking to my girlfriend about how in our younger days we spent eight to twelve hours wearing the highest and more fashionable heels we could find. And we did not only wear them out to the clubs or events, we wore them to work. Some times they were a conservative one inch kitten heel and some days called for the three inch power black heel. But every day we wore a pair of heels, our closets equipped with shoes to fit any occasion. Three pairs of different black heels were a must. A pair of stylish kitten heels matching our cute flowy summer dresses waiting for the snow to thaw and a pair of fierce fuschia pink with metal spiked heels sat ready and waiting for a night out dancing.

At that time, I had 37 pairs of heels, not just shoes, but heels. Brown ones, pink ones, patterned ones, sparkly, beaded and flip flop styles. I dreamed of owning a pair of Blahnik's, Choo's and one day Louboutin's,  I loved my shoes, and I still do. But now that I am older, I find I can’t wear heels for very long anymore. I know they aren’t good for my bones, back or feet, but some days I still long to wear my pretties.

The Lil’ Cupcake is already getting into the shoe fetish. She is particularly drawn to the fierce fuschia pink with metal spiked heels that sit in my closet bagging for an occasion to be worn. But now that I don’t go out dancing very much, they hardly see the pavement, unless the Lil’ Cupcake is playing with them.

After my dear friend D and I recalled our current work and everyday shoe collection made up of a pair of Toms for casual Friday, a pair of Uggs for walking in the snow, and a pair of black high gloss patent leather ballet flats for work, she sadly said “Oh how the mighty shoe fiends have fallen.” I thought it happened because I was a mom, but D doesn’t have children, and she has also fallen victim to comfort and flats.

Sadden by our new found realization that our fashionista selves are getting lazy, we decided spring is just around the corner, and we need to shop and find key pieces, blouses, pants, and SHOES. Off the Pinterest we go, to find our new improved and mature fashionista selves. Now if I could just figure out an awesome style for my hair. If anyone wants to have a makeover day, I give you permission to call me up.

I am mom, hear me roar

The past week, Twitter and the blogsphere has been blowing up about mom-wars. Here's my response.

Me, the Lil' Cupcake and my mom in Kauai last Christmas


Initiation is nine months, hours of painful labour, teething and sleepless nights. Building a family, raising a child and harbouring fond memories of each delicate moment is the invisible reward in which we seek.

My uniform is simple, a ponytail, comfortable Toms and whatever clean clothes are seen first when I stumble from the bed. My weapon of choice, a classic tote slung over the right shoulder ready with an arsenal of equipment for any climate, season or mishap. I am Mom.

I wear split-up, snot and slobber as a badge of honour. I often have smears, smudges and unidentifiable messes on my clothes. They are my battle wounds that I wear proudly and signify that I am a member of the not-so-secret society of warriors. I am Mom.

There is no special handshake or card; we are identified by the babies on our hips, the small hands in our hands, and the pictures on our phones.

We are gold card carrying member of the Starbucks club, Tim Horton's or Second Cup, which help us stay awake. We drink coffee like a champ and can pee faster than Michael Phelps can swim a lap. I have hearing that can put a dog to shame, and have hugs that can stop crying in midstream. We are Moms.

My little hawaiian princess. Photo by Modern Twist Photography

The future holds many decisions, lessons and rewards. The unknown is scary and exciting. Each milestone reached, each obstacle achieved, and every problem solved brings exhilaration only known by a mom.

With a nod and a smile, we are the same. Some will judge, others will snicker, but respect should be mutual. In the end, we all have a common goal: to raise happy and kind little people. No matter the choices we have each made for our little humans, we have made the best decisions for us.

Respect is mutual. We are the voices for our children, and we are Moms.