There are some things in life that are never acceptable. Socks should never be worn with sandals. Pink and red are not complementary colors. Sneakers are unacceptable footwear for jeans.
It’s at this point that I’ve come to the conclusion that the Race isn’t real life, and true confessions: I’ve made all of those fashion faux pas. I’m not proud of it and I spent the whole time bemoaning my miserable existence, but I the fact still remains that I’ve broken all of these rules.
Here’s another confession: I hate chacos. I didn’t like them when I got them, I didn’t like them when I wore them to camp, I don’t like them now that I wear them every single day. [Future Racers: don’t buy chacos because someone tells you to. Learn from the mistakes of the Racers who have blundered before you and get Rainbows.] Today the chacos officially sealed their fate as worst things on the planet when they were the source of the mysterious stinking smell, so I dunked them in soapy water and tied on my running shoes.
With my skirt.
Hi, my name is Natalie, and I look like a mom. And not a cute mom, either, the ones with have clean hair and in season pumps leading perfectly dressed children. No, I’m the kind that wears running shoes with an out of date, dirty skirt (thanks to a week of holding small, mud covered children) to run around town in.
No offense if this is you or your mom, it’s just not me or mine, and even though I break fashion rules every day (with one backpack for the year and most our destinations wintery, I have limited clothing options), I still feel the gravity of every bad outfit.
So here I am, uncomfortable about my smelly feet in running shoes under a skirt that should be thrown away or at the very least washed, shoulders peeling from last week’s sunburn, messy hair in a messier bun and sweet glasses from Romania broken and fixed with medical tape, on my way to a Care Point to hang out with more preschoolers.
We arrive, try to play some games (teaching games to American kids is hard, but teaching games to two and three year olds who don’t speak English is just about impossible, though it makes for a good laugh later), and then sit them down for the Bible lesson. At this point, one of the babies starts crying. Her sister (who was maybe two years older) had been holding her, but handed the screaming infant to me so she could color, and as I lifted the fat- cheeked child and carried her outside to calm her down, she peed all over me. Babies here rarely wear underwear, let alone diapers, so I was lucky that this one was wearing pants, but the pee still went right through.
So now I look like a mom and I smell like baby pee. Oh, this is a good day.
But I began to rock the still- screaming baby and sing:
Bye bye, baby bunting
Daddy’s gone a- hunting
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap my baby bunting in
It’s a song my mom used to sing to me, and for whatever reason it was the only song that came to mind as I stood under the blazing midday African sun, watching kids color pictures as I attempted to soothe an inconsolable baby. Though she relaxed completely against my body, the tear wouldn’t stop, and I began to wonder if she had a daddy, if she knew him, if she lived with her mom or her grandma or maybe just her sister (who might have been 5 years old) with no adult to clean or feed or love her.
That’s not just some crazy, fleeting thought, either. It’s a distinct possibility in this culture.
Something clicked for me in that moment. It was ok that my shoes didn’t go with my outfit, that there was pee all down my front, that I looked like a mom. For those few minutes, I was a mom- I was allowed to nurture and to love this tiny baby who may have been hungry or tired or dirty or just in need of someone to pat her back and sing a silly song and remind her- even just in actions- that it’s going to be ok.
Some things are never acceptable. Missing moments of true ministry because you’re too worried about how ridiculous you look is never an option. Loving a baby who may have no one despite your mom look will hopefully not be a daily occurrence, but when it happens, I can’t wait, because if that’s what it takes to love on these kids, I’ll look like a mom every day.
But I want my dresses and heels when I get back, family. 🙂
