I remember the first time I felt like I had officially joined “The Moms’ Club.” I went out to eat with a girlfriend. I took Emma along—she was a couple years old. As I searched in my purse for a pen to sign the check, I could find only a few crayons. I was quite excited, and I’m sure the waiter, who was all of twenty or so years old, and male, had no idea why I was happy to be without an adult writing implement.
After eight years of trying, I was happy to give up everything for Emma. Even a pen. John wore spit-up on his suit one day the first week he went back to CNN and didn’t care.
Why is it that parents are often happy to have their identities subsumed by a tiny ball of person that at first does nothing but cry? We can blame it on sleep deprivation, but that’s only a smoke screen.
I think it’s so that when they grow up and go away, and you miss them in the middle of the night, you have thousands of tiny memories that make you smile.