I am a late bloomer.
I always have been. Each year on my birthday I receive a phone call from my mother to remind me of how long it took to get me out of her uterus. “Oh, I remember where I was [fill in the birthday blank] years ago!” she clucks. “Enduring 10 hours of labor trying to give birth to you! God, I thought you’d never come out.” I thank her for the call and suggest she send an ecard next year. READ MORE
My bed is next to my closet and the doors of the closet are all mirrors. So, nearly every morning, I wake up and the first thing I see is my own reflection. And let me tell you, it’s a sobering way to start the day.
Now, to be sure, there are some days that I see my reflection and my eyes are all full of sleep and haze and I think, “Damn. Look how cute I am!”
But most days, I see my cheeks sagging pillow-ward, my breasts sliding precipitously into the mattress, and my stomach (when I’ve kicked off the covers) looking like dough that’s risen past the confines of the pan. And I think, “Damn! What the hell happened to you?” READ MORE
I used to work.
Nope, scratch that, I still work (it’s just not in an office anymore, but more on that later).
What I mean is, I used to have a typical 7:30am-4pm J-O-B, the kind that included an actual paycheck and benefits. I was your typical “working mother”. Waking up at 5am while the baby still slept so I could sneak in a shower. Waking her up from dreamland, nursing her before getting her dressed for daycare, gulping down my morning cup of coffee whilst semi-watching the news on CNN. No matter how early I woke up, I inevitably always felt rushed leaving the house with my to-do list dancing around in my brain: Did I grab my purse? Did I make enough bottles? Did I leave the garage door open? Shit, I left my coffee on the counter. READ MORE