My husband and I brought my son to look at a preschool this morning. This means that in the not too distant future we will pay other people to watch him smash play dough and snatch toys from his unsuspecting peers. But it means something else. Something much more sinister.
I am no longer a starter mom.
Starter moms, not unlike starter homes, are new to the whole experience. They are the moms of infants and toddlers, women still straddling the white picket fence of maternal transformation. Their past is still in sight; they can almost taste the salt on the last margarita they drank, almost remember the back beat at the club they danced at until two in the morning. Like a starter home, everything is still beginning. Your bohemian past is close enough to smell like the lingering odor of patchouli.
Then. You cross over. You have a preschool aged child. You no longer can claim postpartum status. You can't blame your jiggly belly on your recent pregnancy. (It's only been three years...) Now, like a huge house in a established subdivision, your life secures you. Your life traps you. You are mom. You have a mom belly. Mom pants. A mom voice. Never mind that on some level--deep inside--you're still that hip, groovy gal you once were. A line has been crossed. Soon, the PTA.
Frankly, I am appalled. How could this have happened? I just wanted some kids. And now, much to my utter dismay, I have joined a rank of human beings that at one point I mocked. I could not understand their mom bellies, their mom jokes, their mom sweatshirts, their mom insistence on vegetable eating. Now, I'm on the other side folks. See me waving from over the fence.