Veeder: I'm not who I used to be, and I wouldn't have it any other way
There are things I used to be.
I used to be more careless. I used to be flexible. I used to be able to say "yes" loud and clear without worrying what "yes" would cost me.
I used to be OK in a bikini, stretched out across the front lawn with a magazine and an endless afternoon in front of me. Because I used to be younger.
I used to be younger, and thinner and less affected by the one margarita I ordered with supper. I used to order two and then sing into a long night without worrying about the morning and the thin thread attaching me to the little bodies breathing in and out, eyes closed tight in their beds without me.
I used to have spare time that I didn't spend on searching for sippy cup lids or calculating the coupon cost per diaper.
In my other life, I never once uttered the words, "Don't lick the doorknob!" and I certainly never made 37 negotiations a day that involved two more bites or five more minutes and no, you can't put the puppy in your purse.
And I certainly didn't use the phrase "be careful" as often.
There are things that are buried in me now under these new layers of motherhood. I think about peeling them back only when I'm looking through old photographs of myself toasting to the sky or in the rare quiet moments that last long enough that I'm almost convinced I could be her again, before the creak of the door or the cry out of the lungs of the fresh soul in her crib in the dark calling for her momma.
I am momma.
Last week, I was driving the ribbon of Interstate 94 that stretched out west for home. My babies were tucked in the back as the landscape zoomed by their windows and my eyes were heavy with the weight of exhaustion my new body holds. It overwhelmed me.
I signaled, parked in a rest stop and found a shady spot to take a break. I used to be unprepared, but this new version of me had blankets to spread out under our bodies and so we all laid down in a big pile under clouds rolling slowly, slowly, slowly across a blue sky.
And I want to say it before it absorbs into my skin and gets lost in the bigger, more urgent stories of a life...
If I died tomorrow, this 20 minutes at a rest stop along I-94 with the baby navigating the lines of my tired face, my husband lifting the toddler to the sky, her squeals, our laughter, all four of our bodies touching one another, touching the earth, looking up at the trees and the fact that we simply couldn't be anywhere else in the world if we wanted to, will make the highlight reel when I close my eyes at the end of my life.
Because I used to be so many things, but now I have these layers attached to this wonderfully agonizing winding and unwinding thread, and I will never be who I used to be because now I am a mother.