Last night I went to the grocery store–completely alone–and it was absolutely blissful.  I listened to my iPod!  I jaywalked!  I wasn’t dressed properly for the weather, but it didn’t matter because it was just me and not a defenseless baby who lacks the ability to say, “Mom, I can no longer feel my limbs!”

I remember hearing friends with babies tell similar stories–back before I became a mother myself–and admittedly thought it a little on the pathetic side, like, really?  Walking to the end of the driveway to get the mail by yourself is a luxury to you now?  Your husband taking the baby for a stroll around the block so you can read a magazine article is how you get your kicks these days?

It’s true, though, and I’m learning it’s only pathetic from the perspective of the babyless.  In fact, a lot of things are only pathetic from the perspective of the babyless.  I recall a conversation awhile back with a certain family member of mine–we’ll call her my sister, since that’s who she is–in which it was advised that I not become one of Those Parents.  You know, one of THOSE.

And somehow even at the time–this was while I was still pregnant–it had already occurred to me that the thing about Those Parents–which is what prevents them from NOT being Those Parents–is that they (a) don’t realize what they’re like, and (b) don’t care what you think of them.  So I told her I’d try, but on the off chance that I did become one of Those, it would be too late to change back and she’d just have to deal with it.

Maybe I’ve become one, maybe I haven’t–I’m too tired most of the time to think about it, quite frankly.  All of my extra brainpower is reserved for maniacally refreshing my Google Reader feed and then forgetting everything I’ve read three and a half seconds later.

But yes, I will say that walking around by yourself–not having to worry about the welfare of a baby–for ten minutes is pure bliss, and it isn’t pathetic to me–I don’t have time for it to be because I then walk in the door from my little grocery store escapade to a ridiculously supportive husband, bouncing a ridiculously perfect baby on his knee and singing–in his own personal variation of Mariah Carey’s Christmas hit–”I don’t want a lot of babies / Just the one we’ve got’s oh-kayyyyyy . . .”

And they’re both mine–all mine–and the sudden, still-kind-of-unexpected-each-time jolt of THAT bliss rides so quickly on the coattails of the other, the combination should be illegal.

When I walk in the door, my senses are so quickly flooded with family stuff–being collaborative, practicing togetherness, which are pretty new things for me–I don’t have time–or the desire–to think about whether or not I’m one of Those Parents . . . until my next five-minute walk, at which point I’m usually a little too busy reveling in not having to be responsible to care.

A friend of mine recently wondered if anyone else was ever suddenly so all-around happy with where they are in their lives at a particular moment that it downright freaked them out.

My solo excursions to and from the grocery store are full of those moments.

In fact, it almost makes me want to be a little more careful about the jaywalking so I’ll be alive to experience more of them.

In trying to come up with the least offensive topic with which to kick off this here new “mommy blog,” I realized I was taking the wrong approach.  Instead of asking myself what I could do to make single, childless people–who have more time to fill their lives with mindless activities so as not to ever be alone with their own mortality–feel as comfortably justified as possible in their single childlessness, it occurred to me that I should be asking myself what I could do to make that very group feel the LEAST comfortable and LEAST justified in their belief that people become insufferable losers when they have children.

I’m not saying that the belief is unjustly held by some–toward some–but amusingly enough–and here’s where the joke is on you, my audience, my five- or six-person group of “followers” who’ve been reading my angst-ridden diatribes since the internet was text-only and Pine was making it really, really difficult for us to quit it–I have always been rather a boring, insufferable loser!  And you’ve been reading me anyway, so what does that say about YOU?  I actually kind of think that having a baby has made me more interesting.  At least it gives me something to talk about besides my period.

Except for the fact that this–my maiden mommy blog post–must needs address that very subject, because, guess what?  Little did I realize until the other day that the return of one’s period is one of the most traumatizing ordeals you can go through as a new mom.

I mean, you do learn early on that breastfeeding staves off your monthly visitor indefinitely, but after several months of around-the-clock caring for a child, it’s the last thing on your mind until that fated day when it does reappear, and it’s been so long and your brain has been so thoroughly fried since you were last graced with its presence a year and a half ago, that your initial response goes a little something like this:

1) “Oh my god, there’s something wrong with me–I’m BLEEDING!”

After you’ve come to terms with the ridiculousness of that thought, next:

2) “Oh my god, my child is no longer 100% dependent on my body for nourishment!  He’s only, like, 97% dependent now!  Pretty soon he’ll be getting his learner’s permit and filling out college applications and I’ll be moving into a 55+ community.”

And finally:

3) “Wait a minute here, body–you’re saying that on top of keeping track of a baby’s ever-changing feeding, burping, pooping, nursing, and sleeping schedule, I now have to travel back in time to a place where the only thing I had to worry about in life was changing my tampon in a timely fashion?  But somehow miraculously work that newly-rediscovered knowledge into a schedule in which there is pretty much zero room for ANYTHING, let alone something that–if ignored–results in bleeding through your clothes?  DOES NOT COMPUTE.”

I’d once heard that mothers cry at this moment (I cried later–in the shower–not right away, as I was mostly in shock), but not being, at the time, on the emotional rollercoaster ride that is parenthood myself, I assumed that theirs were shallow cries of frustration over having to once again deal with the “hassle” that is the process by which new life is made possible.

I now know differently.  It is a dramatic turning point–one of the (I have a feeling, MANY more to come) phases of motherhood wherein it hits you that your baby is growing up too fast and maybe you need to have another one in a couple years because otherwise of what use is your body?  After acting as another HUMAN BEING’s sole food source for so long, what other function could you possibly perform that wouldn’t completely pale in comparison?

So my advice to you is to breastfeed exclusively forever.  Just never stop–don’t introduce solids, ever.  Let your baby grow up completely stigmatized as That Weird Kid whose mom breastfed him ’til he was getting his learner’s permit and filling out college applications.

But short of that . . . hold on for your life on the emotional rollercoaster of a ride that is parenthood.

Wait . . . did I really just type that?

No, really–don’t try to prepare yourself, because there’s nothing you can do.  You’ll cry.  You SHOULD cry.  It’s your period!  Remember when the only thing you had to worry about was feeling all emotional and weepy briefly at a certain time of the month?  [insert maniacal mommy cackle here]  Remember when the only OTHER thing you had to worry about was how that emotional weepiness was affecting your loved ones? [insert EXTENDED maniacal mommy cackle here]

A very wise friend of mine recently mentioned that the only thing worse than getting older is NOT getting older, and similarly: the only thing worse than getting your period is not getting your period ever again.

And the only thing worse than raising a child in a world where reality is often very uncomfortable and hard to stomach  is raising a child in a world where reality isn’t dealt with because it’s too uncomfortable and hard to stomach and prevents single, childless people from remaining blissfully unaware of their own mortality.

Here’s to trying to set a good example.