In which I cease to exist

One of the most common things I have had other moms tell me is that moment when you cease to be you and become 'mom'. It's a wonderful accomplishment, like becoming a doctor and ceasing to be a Mr. or Mrs. But with none of the training or pay and all of the bodily fluids. I have heard my own mom talk about finding herself again after years of having us in her home. She, she never stopped being mom, but when we became adults (in only the most general of definition) she suddenly found herself facing down a reflection that was a bit of a stranger. I read something my grandmother wrote, describing looking forward to her empty-nest years as if they were a brand new hat tucked away under a bed that she was excited to wear. We as mothers put our selves as individuals on hold, almost exchanging one person for another. It's not a bad thing, our children make us better people, help us grow as we nurture others, help us see the world in new and beautiful ways. But even with all the amazing ways motherhood will change who we are, especially at first I think, it's traumatic. We look back on who we were before we were mom or dad like we're in an alien movie. Who is in my skin?

I first felt like some semblance of who I was as an individual return when I was able to cook my first real meal again after having my son. It was my epiphany chicken. Everything about that meal was orchestrated, like I should have been doing it in front of a studio audience. I was confidant in my spices, beautiful in my apron. I think it is one of the reasons I now struggle with my weight, food is the ultimate comfort because in my kitchen I am myself again.

I've always been a bit 'mom', I am without a doubt a caretaker to the core. But becoming mom for real isn't just a change inside you, and I find it's the reactions of my surrounding universe that make me feel the most lost. Someone, in the most well meaning and complimenting manner, compared me to his grandmother. I could care less about my age understand, numbers are numbers, but that analogy felt like I had suddenly gone from mommy to matron, like I ceased to exist as a being with any sex appeal. I feel like I don't exist at all sometimes. No one flirts with me for the fun of it like they used to, and sometimes even avoid me because all I have to discuss is baby stories. I fear I have become boring, part of the scenery. My boobs have softened, my wit has dulled, my hips and waist have widened, my world has shrunk.

This gets better with time, so I have been assured. I want to wear those mommy pants with a little more grace and a little less drool. I want to be the nurturer I was born to be, but still be the woman I grew to be, who had friends both male and female because I was fun to be around. I want to be me.

I miss me.