The tale of a time "before".

I vaguely remember a time when I wasn't a mom. I think I used to be fun, and funny, and independant. I spoke with adults and we never mentioned poop, or boobs (in a purely scientific and functional way), and we would laugh and drink. I think I looked good then, and not in the sense that I had brushed my teeth and more than likely had bathed, but in that good way that meant I had taken an unnaturally absurd amount of time to primp and do ridiculous preening rituals such as taking 40 minutes to straighten my unruly curls only to curl them again manually in a more anal manner. I wore perfume that in no way smelled like bananas. My cleavage was intentionally put out there as a beacon of flirtyness, not as a side-effect of having missed a "pump-session". I was alert, and I'd stay up late and roll in around dawn. Now I go to bed before many elementary students, I am jarred awake frequently at night for less than exciting reasons, and I awake before dawn to a day filled with diapers, whining, and Barney. It takes me over 20 minutes to get out the door. I feel like a nomad every time I leave the house. I have "luggage" with me everywhere I roam. I'm constantly double-checking my pack for diapers, sippys, snacks, and butt-paste. I think in that time before I didn't even know what butt-paste was. Ah, memories. I now think it is absolutely acceptable to wear sweats out and about, and not those cute, flattering ones with funny phrases on the rump, but the huge ones that are faded and wretched and feel wonderful. I go to playgroups, and story times, and parks, and whole-food stores. I know when there are sales on clothes, diapers, toys, and desitin, and not because I read about them....I just know. I calculate what time it is in relation to when my son will be hungry before I sip wine. I don't know how to text message. I rarely get to touch the computer, and when I do I'm frantic, constantly trying to gorge on "input" like Number Five. I used to go places on a whim. If I wanted, I could go away for the weekend with only a change of clothes and a toothbrush. I could nap. I could watch television. I could talk on the phone. I could fly. Now I can reprogram the remote when my child has screwed it up beyond recognition. I can make a barrier out of ottomans and couch cushions. I can chop up any food in to unrecognizably small bits. I know how to puree, and I use the word puree as a verb. I think about what is in everything. What ingredients are in hot dogs, and cleaning products, and juice. What kind of paint is on that toy? I used to spoil my dog. We'd go for walks, I'd dress her up, and talk goofy to her, and snuggle with her. Now she makes me crazy, and if the child didn't adore her, I hate to think what would become of her. It makes me feel guilty. Everything makes me feel guilty. I don't spend enough time with my husband, I spend too much time with my son, I don't keep close enough contact with my friends, I can't relate to single people, I need more money, I shouldn't care about money, I'm not neat enough, I don't cook enough, I sometimes forget to bathe the baby for 3 days, I have no idea where all of my cute clothes went. I'm not sure if the time before ever really existed, or if it is a side effect of my sleeplessness. Maybe I was this terrific person who walked around all by herself, and worried only about herself, and carried a real purse. Maybe I just wish I was that person so I have something to daydream about when the word "Mama" is following me around, endlessly clinging to my legs in tears. Either way, I'm in a different time now. I have a different sense of self. I'm a mom. More specifically, I'm Cohen's mom. He is now my boss, and is sometimes a tyrant. He keeps me long hours, he expects way too much of me, and he somehow gets me to run around like a crazy person just for a chance of a half-toothed grin. And I love every second of it. I wake up with him at least twice every night even now, and if he isn't on time for our midnight rendevous I stay awake and silently wait for my invitation. I obsess over tiny jeans, and shoes, and which ones compliment which tiny outfit. I buy "gear" and always think I need more. My once chic decor is now all name brand: Fisher Price, Infantino, Graco, Little Tykes. I am wearing a wardrobe that is three times older than my son. I miss my maternity clothes, I dress for comfort, I don't shave my legs. It's a different sort of fairy tale, and the fulfillment of a different sort of dream.