Tonight, post-bath, Adeline decided to run naked back and forth through the hallway. My son found this so truly hysterical that he couldn't stop laughing, then, naturally, couldn't wait to join in. I observed these moments of pure delight with fond memories of the streakers in my college days who also appreciated their moments of nude revelry. Surely, we were all born to streak.
And then you grow up, and things change. Like your body.
I've been hanging out with some other "changed-body people." A.K.A. mothers. Motherhood has inducted me into this secret society where stretch-marks can be discussed with a certain air of competition. Where else can this be done?
I am certain that I ought to be blogging about life's deeper profundities. Were I not thoroughly consumed with a child who can scream continuously for almost an hour, I might have the time to consider the finer things of life.
Oh, right, unless, like those in the secret society, I hold some sense that parenting is one of the finer things in life. Or that, at least, in believing that (since we get to believe whatever we want), I regain my sanity. Never my former belly. Sanity, however, remains the more significant of the two, despite what all the beer commercials would have you believe. Beauty won't get you far if you're crazy.