Wednesday, December 13, 2006

From bar hopping to breastfeeding

How the hell did I end up singing along to Ralph Covert, driving a messy Passat station wagon with two, count em, two carseats? I used to be cool. I used to listen to the best emerging music, watch the latest in independent film, wear the hip new styles, be up on the who’s who and what’s what. Now I count myself lucky if I make it out of the house without spit up in my hair. Ok, it isn’t really that extreme. I do drive a wagon and spend a lot of time, probably too much, shopping for organic kid-friendly foods and mind-expanding play things. I change diapers, call the toilet the “potty”, and shop for pull-ups with Cars on them, not Spiderman. I can whip up a mean Macaroni and Cheese (never called mac and cheese in our house without correction by our little dictator). I plan exciting outings for an informal playgroup of my preschooler’s buddies. I know all of the good kid music, and can sing along without missing a lyric. I can name all of the Teletubbies and most of the Thomas the Tank Engine trains. I know that Curious George band aids are inherently better than Sesame Street band aids, but that a good Nemo band aid trumps them both. I guess that makes me cool in the realm of 3 year-old boys, but it is a world apart from who I used to think I was. To be honest, for most of my adult life I wasn’t all that sure I even wanted kids. I was a rough kid to raise and I wasn’t sure I would be up for that challenge. I still find myself surprised by the total life change I’ve made after picking up these two tiny hitch hikers, trading my Karman Ghia for the trusty Passat. Don’t get me wrong, I like my life very much, it is just a far cry from the girl who knew the bartenders and used to close down the bars. And then again, at the ripe old age of 34, that sort of behavior would be a little depressing and bar fly-ish. I guess part of it is that I have a hard time with the concept of me, Laura, as an adult. A real tax-paying, property-owning, 401K-having, childbearing, responsible-for-the-lives-of-others adult. I don’t know if that will ever really catch up with my sense of self. I still feel like I’m pulling something over on someone when I do the parent-y stuff with the kids. Almost like I’m pretending to be a grown up, hoping the other parents won’t see through my disguise and oust me from the club. And yet there isn’t much about my life I’d change. Sure I’d like to be a bit thinner, a bit more stylishly put together, and it would be nice if my house had central heat, better yet a housekeeper. But I have a family that loves me, two amazing boys, a husband who is my best friend and I think is sexy as all get out. Life is sweet, a bit sticky and covered in fingerprints, but sweet.
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