Forget the kids—let’s talk about US!

whoami

Me: I remember her fondly. That is, the me who used to spend Sunday afternoons reading. The me who used to go out dancing on Saturday night with girlfriends, and end up grooving with some cute guy on the dance floor. The me who used to love planning exotic vacations just as much as going on them. The me who used to take a couple of hours off at work during lunchtime to go check out a photo exhibit around the corner. The me who had regular DIY spa nights—steaming my face, applying a mask, polishing my toes. The me who spent hours on the phone with girlfriends, gossiping, exchanging advice, pondering the meaning of life.

This is the me that I still haven’t quite adjusted to, six years into motherhood: The me who finds it miraculous to have time to read a couple of chapters of a book in a row. The me who dances in the living room to Laurie Berkner (but nowhere else). The me who plans trips that center around life-size cartoon characters. The me who scarfs down lunch at her desk in order to get home to the kids at a reasonable hour. The me who considers washing my face at night a treat. The me who is thrilled to have the energy to talk with friends for a few minutes at night.

And then, there’s the me I have adjusted to: The me who loves her children beyond her wildest dreams.  

What me did you used to be?

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