The end of Monday rolled around, and after eight hours of work and another couple of hours wrangling The newly carrier-free Kid from daycare to the pediatrician then back to daycare to retrieve a misplaced bottle then finally home, I placed him in his exersaucer and took a blessed pee break. Which is when I looked up at the mirror and immediately identified with those poor saps who audition for American Idol despite a glaring lack of talent: Why didn’t anyone tell me the truth? Bloodshot eyes, mascara dust blackening my upper cheeks, various breakouts, gray hairs. Hot mess staring back at me. The Kid paged me from the next room (“UUUUUHHHHH!”) and I flipped the light switch.

The Husband and I have been talking about family photos lately, and it was clear we were on different pages when he provided me with a list of three options. One photographer comes to the house for the session. (“I don’t like people knowing where we live,” I told him, flashing back to some of the Lifetime movies I’ve seen.) One was Sears. (“We are not Sears people. This is a joke, right?”) The final was a studio with green screen capabilities. I just stared at him. “So we could get a space background or something. It would be hilarious!” he said. (“Why don’t we just park a trailer in our front yard and sell fruit on the interstate and WHY AREN’T YOU TAKING THIS SERIOUSLY?!“)

I may be taking this too seriously.

Though I’ve documented The Kid’s nine months with a couple thousand iPhone shots, I’ve found this data insufficient due to its lack of expense and professionalism. It matters to me that we capture this time in our lives, and all three of us together, with good light in a pretty setting. It matters, at times, a little too much. Maybe because I don’t want the only documentation of my own reaction to TK’s first year of life to be a pile of just-short-of-crazy blogs, tearful breakdowns over spitup and blowouts, and gray hairs and deepening skin lines. I want to look perfect, carefree, happy. (I am happy, to be clear. I just forget that sometimes when sweet potatoes congeal on the floor.)

I want a pretty picture, dammit.

And we’ll get one, and some of you will see it and press “Like”, and I will feel validated. But on every other day, I need tools to deal with my Diary of a Mad White Woman self, that psycho staring back at me in the mirror, my mercurial reactions to the normal, blessed details of everyday life. And no, concealer is not enough. Concealer, I think, is actually part of the problem. METAPHOR ALERT!

The pouch above my C-section scar, the gray hairs, the shots of me looking so much older than I did a year ago…these are badges of honor. And I don’t mean that in a fake, actressy, “Wrinkles are beautiful!” way spouted in an interview while en route to a botox appointment. I mean that I am not the same person I was a few years ago, or even last month, and there should be proof of that. And on my better days, when I’ve had a decent night’s sleep and don’t have to deal with teeth, I even believe it. I don’t need the smooth lines of inexperience to bolster my self-worth because they aren’t me anymore. And thank God for that.

And you know who else likes this face? This guy–the one in the picture staring at it, sent to me by his teacher yesterday. Good enough for me.