Who (the Hell) Am I?
I think most of us moms lose part of our identity the moment the OB puts that first stitch into our grade 4 episiotomies. You know what I mean, people. We no longer are the individuals that have their own tastes, hobbies, and ideas (other than those revolving around controversial issues like "paper or plastic," "breast or bottle," and "cloth or disposable.") For instance, in the BK (before kids) period of my life, I actually loved to stay out all night dancing and partying with my friends. Now, I have a reputation of a staunchly diurnal animal who must prop her eyelids open with toothpicks by dusk. I used to take rock guitar lessons with my screaming red Fender. Now, that Fender (minus the two inch dust collection) belongs to my 15 year old son, Erik. On the plus side, at least he's gotten past songs like Row, Row, Row Your Boat and Red River Valley.) I use to run every day around the Rice U campus--five miles total. Now, the only running I do is chasing after my kids when they're carrying sharp objects or love-abused pets or racing to the bathroom lest my 5 kid drooping bladder misbehave. No, mothers lose their identities and become a conglomerate of other things. We're the bullhorn for moving comatose troops into action. We're the angels perched on our kids' shoulders, whispering in their ears that, no, they shouldn't set the backyard on fire. We're the Franklin Day Planners that ensure our kids (and husbands) do more than pick their noses all day. We're the shuttle busses that cart everyone from pillar to post and, sadly, that bus is seldom a Porsche 911 or Corvette. We're the hankies that dry tears. We're the trash receptacles for depositing old gum, fuzzy lifesavers, and booger-infested tissues. We're the emesis basins that accept all projectile vomiting without warning or hesitation. We're the burr in everyone's saddle that has honed skills of nagging to a sharp edge, bringing new meaning to the concept of annoyance. We're the waiters, chefs, maids, doormats, lackeys, security officers, teachers, fashion consultants, doctors, nurses, and whipping boys. Most importantly, we're a pair of open arms they need when things get rough. Well, I guess that's not too bad. And maybe it's better that the unsuspecting public not experience my questionable rocker talents.