The Discovery

If you listen to women who have chosen The Mother Path, especially those in The Stay-at-Home Corridor, they tend to ask each other “So, what did you do before?”

What we’re really asking is: So, who were you? You know, before?

Honestly, that’s the hardest part of becoming a parent. No matter how much you tell yourself you’re going to be just like Rachel on Friends and remain exactly the same person with exactly the same wardrobe and exactly the same grooming routine it Does. Not. Happen.

One day several months into this baby adventure you find yourself walking up a grocery store aisle looking for diapers and you happen to spot the make-up display. You stop and think to yourself, “Where is my make up? Do I even have any make up anymore? Maybe it’s behind the big bottle of fenugreek in the bathroom cabinet. Or is it in the drawer with the diaper ointment..?”

Standing in line, you overhear some teenagers behind you chatting about a new artist and you have no idea what they're talking about.

Somewhere in those several months you become totally invisible to men between the ages of 17 and 28.

You might as well be made of glass.

This causes you to engage in wistful nostalgia about outfits you once owned and would be better off forgetting. ZZ Top girls were meant to exist only in vidoes, not in real life. But all you remember is how totally hot you were to the incoming freshman…

Those nights you swore you’d never repeat are now recalled with feelings of wonder and joy. “I once drank so much tequila I threw up for hours,” you sigh, remembering the thrill of it all.

Good times.

Where has that cool, sexy, stylish and adventurous gal gone?

Who have you become?

You've become a mother. And I’m here to tell you, she’s sure not who you thought she'd be.

You thought she’d be a hip, happening kind of woman who toted her baby to the local coffee house to meet with other hip, happening kind of women who still read books and followed current events and had a healthy sex drive.

In reality, she's a tired, unwashed woman who wears blouses that always seem to have a little baby puke on the left shoulder. She chats with other moms in the baby food aisle about which Nature's Own foods her baby will eat with gusto and which Gerber desserts are good on ice cream. She goes to bed at 8:30 and buys spray bottles of 409 by the case.

Sex? What? Oh that thing that makes babies.

This woman is insecure—about her ability to parent, about how her child is developing, about how she looks. She talks to other parents and makes mental lists of how she's just not doing right by her child. She wonders if the teen bootcamps for juvenile delinquents has a long waiting list and whether she should get on one now.

Her body is really different than the one you started out with. Anything that used to jauntily protrude from your torso has grown by a few inches and has taken a sudden interest in the sidewalk. (I assume that’s what they’re interested in, since they're always looking down there.) Your jeans won't zip up over your baby pocket and you finally figure out why most “mom” jeans have a pouch in front.

Your shoes don't even fit anymore. No one tells you your feet will get bigger until after you get pregnant. So all those shoes you've been clinging to for all these years can't even see you through this hard time. They stare up at you from the bottom of the closet wondering what they've done to deserve this incarceration. You can't stand to get rid of them because you love them. And they might fit again, you know, after a while. Besides, you can tell so much about a women from her shoes and look what these shoes have to say! No, they must stay. So you cram your feet into them anyway and your husband starts asking if your knees are bothering you.

Slowly, slowly you start to figure out who you are all over again. It's sort of like going through puberty only without the ability to lock yourself in your room for hours at a time. It's also part archeological dig. Am I under this mountain of laundry? Am I behind the bottle rack? Did I get stuck in with the frozen breast milk? Did I fall between the sofa cushions? I know I'm around her somewhere. I mean, I was here when I was pregnant. Let's see…I was here when I left for the hospital. Where am I now? Huh. Well, at least I found my keys.

You discover what kind of a mom you are. Are you the always-on-time mom or the always-late mom? Do you always have all your baby supplies or do you have to borrow from other moms? Are you a volunteer mom or a donation mom? Are you an Ezzo mom, a Ferber mom or a Sears mom? Are you a go-to-the-store-by-yourself mom or a tote-the-kids-with-you mom? Do you insist on designer duds or do you prefer Simply Basic? (Or maybe you shop yard sales and e-Bay?) Breast or bottle? Sling or stroller? Crib or co-sleep? Latte or Frapuccino? You start to get a handle on it.

You figure out how to nurse and read at the same time. You learn how to listen to new music on the radio in the car on your way to Gymboree classes. You discover which restaurants in your neighborhood look like adult places from the outside but have macaroni and chesse on the menu and crayons under the hostess's podium.

You actually have sex again.

You buy some jeans that fit and you discover that your favorite shoes will fit if you keep yourself very hydrated. You wear your new jeans and your favorite shoes to a La Leche League meeting or to have coffee with a mom you met online and think "Hey, I'm feeling like myself again."

You find a playgroup or a mothering support group where you ask each other all those questions like: Do you every feel like this was a big mistake? Do you ever want to just leave them on the curb with a sign that says “Free”? Are you scared and worried all the time?

And suddenly you don't feel so alone and lost.

Of course, it's right about this time you start thinking of having another one.