Before I was a mom, I slept late every weekend. Now, even four years later, the slightest cry from the other room sends adrenaline coursing through my veins, and hurtles my body out of bed and into her room before I am even conscious.
Before I was a mom, I thought back-talk was unacceptable and knew I wouldn't tolerate it. Now I stifle my laugh when my four year old puts her hand on her hip and tells me how it is. And no matter how angry I am, those big brown eyes and that sweet "am I in trouble?" voice melt me every time.
Before I was a mom little noises distracted me. Now I can tune out even the loudest toy or tapping. I can ignore the "Mom, Mom, Mommy, Mom, Mama, MOM!"
Before I was a mom I had a tight tummy and smooth skin. Now my body is unmistakably "mom," but I have a little girl who tells me every day how pretty I am, and who wants to be just like me.
Before I was a mom, my day-to-day choices didn't really affect anyone. Now I weigh and measure every decision based on how it might or might not affect her life.
Before I was a mom, I ate what I wanted when I wanted. Now I willingly hand over the last bite, the bigger piece, or the only candy bar.
Before I was a mom I didn't notice how inappropriate some tv shows and commercials were. Now I find myself changing channels often.
Before I was a mom, I wasn't a germ-o-phobe. Now, in a public bathroom, I wonder what the other people think as they hear me saying, "Wait, let me cover the seat. Don't touch anything, put your hands on your head so you don't touch anything. I'll wipe you just don't touch anything."
Before I was a mom, I felt like a complete person. Now I know how incomplete I was.