Yesterday, I had a poopy conversation with a friend. No, it wasn’t a bad conversation. In fact, I found it entertaining. It was a conversation that will only occur between two moms. We talked about potty training and how gross it all can be.

Of course, it’s been MANY years since I’ve potty trained, but honestly, it’s just as hard today as it was back then. Sure, you SAY your child has been potty trained, but really, that’s when the hard work begins, right?

After my kids were potty trained, this is what I remember saying to them CONSTANTLY for months:  “Do you have to go? Need to go potty? Let’s go potty. How about if we try to go potty before we leave? Are you SURE you don’t have to go?” Ad nauseum. Honestly, I annoyed myself, but I couldn’t stop it.

Worse yet, no matter how good you are at potty training, unless you live in a house that is fully tiled – floor to ceiling with a drain in every room and plastic on all of the furniture, there will be accidents. It’s part of the deal. And it kinda sucks, don’t you agree?

And yet, to me, there’s nothing more reassuring than knowing that some things in motherhood have never changed. We still struggle with the same basic challenges – day to day, year to year. What breaks us down is when the challenges rise up and overwhelm us – like poopy pants at the most inconvenient time.

What builds us up is that we, as moms, always rally together, share our experiences and become stronger for that. God bless moms. God bless poopy conversations.

This morning, I stepped outside in the cold, pre-dawn hours. I picked up the newspaper while Millie the wonder dog was doing her business. Suddenly, I looked down at my feet and I laughed. Look what I’ve become.

When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I was often mortified by my mother. If she wasn’t embarrassing me by something she said, she was embarrassing me by something she wore. Very rarely, she’d dress up and I’d give a silent approval. (Emphasis on silent - I couldn’t be bothered to actually say something nice to my mom.)

Back then, when I was young and full of blue sky ambitions and empty promises, I vowed that I’d never dress like my mother. I’d never be caught dead in sweatpants or sweat socks or old worn-out shirts. I’d wear makeup and style my hair and always look terrific.

Fast forward to today, when life has done its best to wear me in, like a comfortable pair of shoes, and my body is in the throes of middle-age spread. I no longer feel the need to prove myself to anyone. After 25 years of marriage, I’m feeling that detached sense of devil-may-care about my appearance. I’m pretty sure my hubby is sticking around, so do I really need to blow dry and curl when I’m just sitting on the couch tonight? You wouldn't believe some of the things I've worn to the grocery store.

So, this morning, when I looked down, here’s what I saw: my two feet in slippers and sweat socks. I have to say, it looked bad, really bad. Oh, how far I have fallen.

Through the years, SO many things about motherhood have surprised me. I can’t believe how exhausting it is. I can’t believe how few answers I have for the constant parade of daily challenges. I can’t believe how the smallest things – a hand-drawn illustration, a hug, or a sweet comment – can bring me to tears. And I can’t believe that I’ve stopped caring how I look.

I guess I’m at a crossroads. On the one hand, I no longer bear the weight of low self-esteem or lack of confidence based on my appearance. I’m comfortable in my own skin and am accepting of the fact that I’m not going to wake up and look like Demi Moore or Jennifer Aniston.

On the other hand, my sweat socks and slippers on this cold winter morning were a bit of a wake-up call. I do have the ability to at least try to look like I care and take a little bit of pride in my appearance. And, on these frigid days, it might actually improve my outlook on life.

Who knows, maybe it’s one less thing about me to mortify my own daughter.