In a pre-baby world, dates and anniversaries and Valentine’s Day and all those things were as easy as Adam suggesting a place to go, me saying I didn’t want to go there, him suggesting another place, me vetoing that, and then agreeing on the next place. Or the place after that. Now, so many things go into it. We need a sitter. We need to pick somewhere close by so that we aren’t wasting valuable freedom in the car. We need to research if we are going someplace new because nothing craps on a night out like blowing it all on a disappointing experience. We need to schedule ourselves meticulously if we are also planning on a movie so that we don’t miss it after dinner and are home in time to relieve said sitter.
It’s a whole song and dance, but so worth it and so necessary because sometimes it just feels wonderful to enjoy each other and not worry about how long it has been since our mostly potty-trained kid has been to the bathroom or how fast the food can come to the table or, god forbid, did you forget to bring a sticker book I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU FORGOT THE STICKER BOOK. You need those little moments when you are just a couple, and parenting is not at the forefront of your mind.
I normally get pretty excited for Valentine’s Day. I am totally one of those suckers that buys into the whole thing, plus I love the crap out of my husband and celebrating that love is fun as hell. Also chocolate. But this year… I’m having such a hard time feeling it. Not the love part. There is always the love part. But the part where I’m feeling coupley and not parenty, is hardly there right now.
A big part of it is this pregnancy. The list of how this time is different than the last just keeps growing. I felt like crap as far as energy and health went when I was pregnant with August, but I also felt like a babe. I felt more comfortable in my pregnant body than I ever had before. Nothing like giant boobs and the knowledge that you are a freaking life maker. Plus having the clearest skin of my existence and very long, shiny and thick Kim K hair wasn’t exactly the pits. And the further along I got, the more confident I felt. This time around, even though I am in better shape and wearing clothes that aren’t Adam’s tshirts and gym shorts, the babe feeling is lacking. I’m tired. I’m busy. And I spend all day wearing my Mom Hat, which feels harder and harder to take off at the end of the day. Not to be confused with Mom Shoes, which are virtually impossible to take off. They’re god awful looking and make your ass sag by association, but it feels like you’re walking on clouds. That you bought with a coupon. On clearance!
I went through this whole stupid phase after my first pregnancy where I got rid of a lot of my clothes, changed the way I did my hair and makeup, and kind of transitioned into my idea of what Sara the Mom looked like. Part of it was probably the weight I put on while I was pregnant, because as it came off, I started to feel more comfortable with being myself again. But there is this other part that is left that I think maybe just comes with the Mom Hat, or at least my Mom Hat, where I feel like I am wearing a sweater set on the inside. It’s hard to feel like a babe in a sweater set. I mean, I guess some people can pull it off, like if you’re into librarian porn or something. But I haven’t quite figured it out.
This has really just turned into one huge fishing for compliments post, so I’m going to also say that I know I’m a babe. I’m also very aware that the dilf I married thinks I’m a milf, even though there are a lot of days that I think he has gotten sharpie in his contacts or something. But there’s this thing I think a lot of women go through where we have kids and become moms and that becomes the first and foremost thing we are. Like Susan popped out a kid and now she is 1. Mom Susan and then on occasion 2. Susan Susan. Motherhood has this weird ability to kind of change our identities, at least for a while. I think? Or I’m the only weirdo. I mean, I can’t think of another major life event that has felt like who I am is somewhat derived from it. I never became Sara in College or Steadily Employed Sara or Sara the Wife. But Sara the Mom feels like this thing that has, at times, steam-rolled the shit over Sara Sara. And now I’m talking about myself in about 40 kinds of third person so I should probably wrap this damn thing up.
Am I just being a gigantic weirdo? Or does this mom thing legit come with a lifetime sweater set and I just haven’t been let in on the secret mom meetings? I’m going to go eat the candy August was going to give to his friends.