My Pageant Mom Truce


Baby bro is married and the day was absolutely fantastical. The day started off a little grumpy because I was dressing myself and my two flower girls in white $244 dollar gowns with only three hours of sleep and a time change to boot.

On top of this, a curling iron was involved.

I decided to play a little Kelly Clarkson on my Macbook and call it a make over party so that sitting still would be a confusing fun act and I was a little impressed with my mommy magic, I must admit.

Have any of you watched that godawful pageant show on TLCToddlers and Tiaras?”

It is a documentary or reality show on the underground pageant world where these sickos dress up their babies like that poor dead Benet Ramsey child, the one with four pounds of make up and a spray tan who was on the cover of every magazine with her parents on trial for murder.

Watching that show is even worse than Hoarders, I swear, and I can’t get through the hour without dropping the f bomb. It is virtually impossible.

The point is that I, a self appointed hater of all pageant moms, and even though it makes me throw up a little in my mouth, I must admit I have a new found respect for them.

Okay, respect is a little much. How about I just call a truce?

The wedding is at 3:30 and they must be at the site at 1:00, completely dressed and ready to go. I send the ex husband to get hair spray, something I never put in my own hair but hope will hold their precious little curls.

They seem to think that running down the halls in just tights is hysterical, and normally I would as well, but I’m in pageant mom mode and I hear myself saying things like,

“Don’t you want to look bootiful for all the people watching you do your flower girl dance?” and “Don’t cry. Mommy isn’t hurting you with the hot iron. You just think its hurting.”

and

“STOP MOVING,” with my jaw clenched as I shove bribes into their way as to prepare them for the perfect photo op moment, which Lola responds to my attitude by rolling on the carpet, barking like a dog.

I kinda think dogs are easier to train at the moment.

I sounded just like the pageant moms I hate so much, shuffling their kids in fake eyelashes and teeth, robbing them of their childhoods for six foot plastic trophies which the lucky ones will one day have traded for eating disorders or a spot on Celebrity Rehab.

Have any of you seen Carrie Ann, the former Miss U.S.A., now porn star and meth addict?

Anyways, I just didn’t have the energy and when they were actually ready and it was time for me to jump in the shower and get gorgeous, I only had time to put make up on one eye. I skooted in the car with heels in my hands, my eyeliner in the other, forgetting my earrings and wondering to myself if that were me or my evil twin demanding the car be stopped for chicken nuggets, with no drink or sauce BECAUSE THEY WILL SPILL ON THEIR DRESSES!!!

I didn’t think it sounded that grouchy until everyone kind of stopped, turned and stared. Yikes.

So what the hay, who cares?

My brother is pledging his love to the woman of our dreams and in return, I am giving up all illusion of control, and as if to celebrate or bring home the point, Lola falls flat on her face the second we walk up to the plantation style wedding home.

Maybe there is a gay coach for hire or a dancing instructor from the pageant world who could make them behave cause this mom is getting them down the aisle and heading straight for the bar.

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