When my son was almost a year old, I got forwarded this email called something like, "Before I Became A Mom"-- a pretty darn corny list of ways in which motherhood had changed the writer. It read to me like that wrong answer one is tempted to give when an interviewer or application asks you to name your greatest weakness, and you say, "I guess my biggest weakness is I just try too hard to be perfect!" Its bullshit and we all know it.
So I wrote a list of my own, and this was several years ago, when Primo was just under one, before Seconda was around, in what I now see was the "honeymoon" period of motherhood. If I were to write an updated version of this list now, it wouldn't be quite so mild in either direction. Honestly I don't know if my dear readers cold even handle my current "Before I was a Mother," because, man, having two hellraisers two years apart, will bring you to some heady highs and some gritty lows. But at this, the end of the first week of Kindergarten, I'm just thinking of how me and my baby made it through, both of us, our greatest separation yet, and I thought I'd revisit this. It may be sort of corny but that doesn't make it less true.
Before I was a mother
My teeth were always brushed, my legs were shaved. My house was in order. I did not trip over rattles or step on Cheerios, I did not find my telephone in the fridge. I did know knowingly leave the house with drool or vomit on my pants.
Before I was a mother
My breasts were decoration. They made blouses fit right and plunging necklines attractive. They were the same size every day. I wore lacy, push up bras. And sometimes no bra at all.
Before I was a mother
I feared motherhood. I was certain I would fail. I couldn’t imagine how it all would work.
Before I was a mother
I had plenty of time with my husband. We dined out, drank wine and saw art films. We stayed in bed until
Before I was a mother
I understood pain only in the general sense. I did not beg for spinal injections and I did not pant on all fours in public.
Before I was a mother
I could not tell one stroller from another. I could not recite the theories of pediatric sleep experts or the schedule for infant immunizations. I thought cradle cap was an accessory. I did not call anyone “little goat” or “stinky butt” or “my old heart.”
Before I was a mother
I dreamt of being a mother. And when I woke, my arms ached from the emptiness of no baby there. I was a puzzle with important pieces missing, right in the middle. My shoulder was not a cushion, my hip was not a resting place, my breast was not nourishment.
Before I was a mother
My heart did not feel in Technicolor. The sight of a chest rising and falling could not paralyze me with gratitude. The sound of monsyllablic babble could not cause me to guffaw. The feel of a heart pounding very fast next to mine did not render me speechless and cause me to cry. I did not say my prayers every night. I did not offer thanks every day.
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