Who are we now that we're moms? Are we still ourselves, only slightly more tired versions? Are we different people entirely? Can we (should we) still spend as much time thinking about all the things we used to think about {I'm referring to you, bad tv}?
So far, I'm finding that being a "mom" means paring everything down. I recently told a friend that all my time these days feels borrowed. It's not a bad thing—it just means that I'm writing this, for example, while standing at my dining table, listening to my baby play in the other room (safely) while I don't make my presence known, lest he cry out for me. Yet, I'm not sitting down, because I figure I'll be jumping up in less than thirty seconds, give or take. (For the record, I don't think dads feel nearly as much like this. My husband (endearingly) still takes a good two minutes to put on his shoes. He's amazed when I have the diaper bag messily prepared, yet prepared, in the time it takes him to brush his teeth).
Conclusion? Mom = genius.
PHOTO CAPTION: I still love my jeans with the three rips in them. The ones about which my friend once said, "The 80's called. They want their jeans back."
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