Before I became a parent, I had many opinions about what it meant to be a parent. Those were, of course, based on having no clue what it meant to be a parent.
I never thought I would
- let my kid scream and kick on the filthy floor of a supermarket. Or better: the floor of a NYC subway.
- make elaborate lunches or something called “food art” (I am still judging myself as I type this)
- make small talk with strangers. And enjoy it. For some reason kids are an open invitation to small talk. On the subway, on the street, at the playground, in the store. Anywhere. Turns out when you spend the majority of your day with people under 3 years old, a quick adult interaction can work wonders.
- steal my kids’ treats. Hello, birthday goodie bag. Halloween, you are lovely, too.
- have to find answers to the question “Why?” approximately 1,367 times a day.
- be outsmarted by a 3 year old.
- share my bed with a baby.
- whip out my boobs in public. Granted, not just for fun but to feed my nursing baby, but still.
- feel anxious when the Cheerio jar is nearly empty.
- shop at Trader Joe’s.
- feel deeply satisfied by a clean kitchen floor.
- spend so much of my time dealing with barf and poop. And not even be that grossed out by it.
- let my kid play with my iPhone while my husband and I enjoy dinner at a restaurant.
- consider sleeping until 7:30am “sleeping in.”
- leave the house in leggings.
- order from Diapers.com non-stop.
- make ridiculous promises/threats to my kid in German, because I know no one can understand me.
- consider a trip to the grocery store by myself “me time.”