10 things I miss about life before kids

I love my kids more than anything, ever. I wouldn’t trade a day with my sweet and hilarious, just-turned-three, little girl or my happy, gentle, giant eight-month-old boy.

But, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that sometimes, every once in awhile, I desperately miss things like...

“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”

Never. Again. That word is stricken from the vocab of parents. Now the answers to those questions are a Jenga puzzle of weekend activities; a 25-minute half-laughing, half-crying recount of the checkout aisle tantrum; and the confession that, as I had a bath, baby poop floated by, and I didn’t get out.

Remember when you’d ask for the hottest shoes, purse or book for your birthday? (I can’t remember the last time I even read a book that didn’t involve farm animals, or how to get your kid to SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT!)

Now all I want in life is a sleep-in…or comfy yoga pants.

Showering used to mean warm water, lovely shampoo and soap. Now, on a good day, it means one or the other. But usually my ‘shower’ is a 10-second regimen of body spray, under eye concealer and dry shampoo. (All while holding a screaming baby, natch.)

I’m a big fan of the English language, but sometimes a situation demands an expletive. And well, s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out just loses its punch.

Not the actual feeling of being hungover but the implication that I had a life in which to be hungover.

Remember shutting the door and peeing in sweet, sweet silence? Now the door is always open and I’m either screaming “WHY IS IT SO QUIET OUT THERE?!” or leaning half-off the toilet because my toddler has wedged herself between me and the wall while clapping and yelling: “I’m so proud of you, Mom!”

I remember reading fashion magazines on the subway and imagining myself in gorgeous outfits. I’d carefully study the must-haves for every season and then buy them.

Now the question: “What to wear?” has two answers: my good leggings or my bad ones.

Pre-kids, stories of labour would elicit an “Ewwwww! How is that even POSSIBLE?!” from me. But now, nothing grosses me out. Not labour, not diapers, not a nasal aspirator, not the Exorcist-force of baby-vomit or washing toddler vomit out of my hair.

There was a time when I had the moves (and stamina) to shake it on the dance floor while singing the words to every song. Now the only songs I know rhyme and dancing’s sole purpose is to make my kids laugh.

Every surface in my house has been peed, pooped or barfed on. Thankfully, Ikea is close-by and fits nicely into our current décor theme of “whatever” and “can you wash that?”