Crumbs in my Jimmy Choo

I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag. Greasy handprints on my jeans.  Stones missing from my jewelry and stilettos begging to be seen.  Remnants of a past life, shelved temporarily.  I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag, and yet I feel so free.

Free from tiny pencil skirts and Spanx strangling my waist.  Free from the fashion industry determining my tastes.  It’s true that I spend most days in stretchy pants and T’s, not showering ‘til dusk, playing on my knees.

A full closet, but nothing to wear…for playground dates and such.  No shoes to walk the extra mile or kick the soccer ball.  Heels can’t bear the extra load of a toddler in my arms. It’s hard to run in sandals to keep little ones from harm.

Don’t get started on my drawers, granny panties, milk-stained bras, tanks that once allowed for easy feeding  then promptly were all wrong. I feel like it’s been years now I’ve been singing this tired song.

Two and a half to be exact, almost three years I’ve been blessed.  I don’t really recall the me before the toys and mess.  He’s changed me for the better, of that I am sure.  And I can’t recall a purse or shoes that I could have loved more.

Alas, I’m trading the purse in for a backpack.  Dresses in for shorts.  I’ve got crumbs in my Jimmy Choo bag, sitting lonely on the shelf, but I’ve gotta say I’ve grown to like this new version of myself.

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