It was a simple remark. It shouldn’t have thrown me into a random rage. But, Goddamn it, I’m exhausted and I take everything personally.
I was cooing over Jack with a friend. I had a spit up rag over my shoulder and I was wearing the only pair of yoga pants that fit without giving me a muffin top. She tickled his feet and without even looking up at me, she breathed, can you even remember your life without him?
I looked at her as if she’d slapped me across the face, rubbed salt in my open c-section wound, and kicked me while I down.
Can I remember my life without him?
Can I remember not being so exhausted that it physically hurt, eating a meal with two hands, and not crying over a stupid Dove commercial?
Can I remember being able to go out with my girlfriends on a whim, eat dinner at fancy restaurants, and get drunk without having to be responsible for a tiny, helpless human?
Can I remember feeling pretty and skinny and wearing pants without elastic waistbands?
Can I remember what it’s like to feel as though my heart is not living and breathing outside of my own body?
Can I remember what it’s like to not have my days revolve around diapers, a crock of shit attempt at “sleep training,” and my milk machine boobs?
Can I remember what it’s like being married without a child, having energy for any sort of intimacy, and not understanding why our friends with kids couldn’t just get a sitter and come out with us?
I look at my friend, then back down at my smiling, happy, healthy baby. My heart explodes into a million tiny pieces and my brain does this weird Men In Black thing where I don’t remember anything that happened before this moment, yet everything makes sense.
No, not really, I say.
And in a weird way, it’s the truth.