the evolution of cocktail conversation

It wasn’t so long ago that I was wildly happy to hold forth on the many virtues, natures, shades, moods, of poo.

Now, if you hadn’t already noticed, my favorite topic is sleep. Deep sleep, shallow sleep, rolling sleep, stationary sleep, sleep positions, sleep locations, sleep accoutrements, sleep schedules, sleep rituals, and on and zzzzzzzzzz….

Last night Jonah slept his five hour stretch from 8 p.m. to 1 a.m. He seems to have edged his bedtime forward of his own accord, which is fine with us. I do like that it’s still within the proper bedtime the book prescribed. (Burn the books, burn the books — yes, I know — but I’m weak, I like the external validation. Hey, at least I’m taking what I like from the books and, so far, glossing over the rest.)

Today he napped from 10-12 (in the bassinet — woo hoo!), 2-3, and 4:15-4:45 (approximately). I’m so pleased and proud. In between he played with his o-ball and rattles. Not sure what I did today. I know in the afternoon I went to the post office, and picked up groceries to deliver to a sick friend, and walked around the neighborhood with Jonah in the stroller to prolong his third nap. But the morning? I have no idea.

Someone somewhere described new motherhood, actually the first 10 years of motherhood, as this kind of tunnel that women emerge from in a daze and then need to find or define themselves again. I can feel that daze now, the way that being a babymom invites me to disappear myself. It’s all consuming, which is fun, and exhausting, and fun again — and also weirdly invisible-izing.

Scott compared being out in the world with Jonah to being in the entourage of a rock star. That too.

I thought by being an older mom, I could be ready to be consumed, because I’ve already done and seen so much in my life. But it turns out it’s still difficult. I miss me. I mean I’m liking this new me, the mom me. But I miss the old me. The writer/actor/traveler/social butterfly/non-mom me.

And on the other hand, it’s too easy. Too easy to stop trying to be and do and achieve, what with such a good excuse and all.

Which is what’s so funny — and lifesaving — about keeping this blog. I’m still a writer, writing. Here, I remember me.