The New Me

My son is 9 months old today, and I'm stunned. Exhausted, taxed, burned out somedays, and stunned. There's a human in my life, that began his existence inside my body, and I have somehow kept him alive for approximately 18 months. Granted, biology deserves the credit for a good portion of that time, but still! I can't get my head around it.

Somedays I feel like I'm living a dream. Somedays it's more like a nightmare. Somedays I don't remember yesterday (or even 5 seconds ago) because raising a human being requires more brainpower than I have ever had. Yet this compulsive, neurotic, often self-sabbotaging 30 something has been trusted with this amazing, refreshing, quirky little life.

18 months ago I had my personal freedom and space, and control over my own body. I could pretty much go anywhere I wanted at any time. I was in the best physical shape of my life. I fit into my clothes, and they looked damn good. I was rarely puked on, and I had all kinds of beauty sleep. My boobs and butt were perkier; my crows feet: invisible. I could go to the bathroom when I needed to, without a plan for ensuring a child's safety while I stepped away. I could eat my meals when I wanted, and I could take as much time as needed to prepare them. They were hot. My meals. And so was I. 18 months ago I was a different person, someone I will never be again. But you know what? I didn't have this:

Quite frankly, I like the new me a lot better. Saggy parts and all.