The Olden Days

Little One, someday you will know that the world existed before you.
You will discover that Daddy and I were people before we were parents.
By the time you're curious about who I was before you were born, I may have forgotten, so this is for both of us:

Before you were born I spent money on myself.
I drove with one hand and tried to beat the light.
I had my own bathroom.
I wore earrings.
I was always on time.

Before you were born I had long, interesting conversations with your father several times a day.
I expected parents to be objective about their kids.
I secretly thought Mother's Day was overrated.

Before you were born I didn't know the fastest route to the hospital.
I didn't know how long I could run on a packet of oyster crackers and a handful of smoked almonds.
I had never fallen asleep while standing in my closet.

Before you were born I thought my floors were clean.
I subscribed to magazines.
I sometimes sat and thought about nothing in particular.

Before you were born I thought getting licked by someone with a mouthful of pureed squash was gross.
I wondered why mothers never ran out of things to talk about.
I was sure that most kids had too many toys.

Before you were born I thought I was busy.
I listened to talk radio in the car.
I imagined you with blond hair and blue eyes.

Before you were born I ate sitting down. At the table.
I left the door open at the top of the basement stairs.
I wanted twins.

Before you were born I had more time, more space, and more money.
I thought that mattered.

Sally Bacchetta - Freelance Writer
Freelance Writer
Parenting
Motherhood