Why is it that the moment we hit that Labor and Delivery room (or maybe the Recovery Room. Not even a war photojournalist wants to document that bloody scene), our tiny little mini-mes gain exclusive rights to our Facebook profile pic? Is it because we are so beaming with pride that we can’t imagine anyone wanting to miss that great shot of them sticking their dirty little foot in their mouth, or their first little poop on the potty? Maybe. Or could it be that maybe, just maybe, our selfies don’t carry the same allure as they once did. But wait, there’s more!

I called my husband “Daddy”…and not in a desirable way. Not even in a once-edgy, white-girl-gone-gangsta kind of way. But in a sad, defeated, when-did-I-give-up-on-the-romance, I’m-a-shell-of-the-woman-I-once-was, kind of way. But wait, there’s more!

We are all familiar with the original game of chicken. Freeze at the threat of oncoming danger until that last possible moment. Well the parenting version is a tradition you also know well, but may have not had enough self-actualization to give it a proper title. In fact, this is a game that many of you would surely win medals in, if there was a division of the Olympics tailored specifically to parents. However, I do fear it would end up being a male dominated event. Now before you get upset by my seemingly sexist statement, read on. But wait, there’s more!

I used to subscribe to the theory that one’s own children’s cries could create a pain within your heart that nobody else could truly feel. Whenever I would hear the sweet little sounds of some other person’s baby, I could see the parents cringe and panic, but it didn’t bother me one bit. The same must be true for my children’s sweet little sounds…right? But wait, there’s more!

I can remember when I had just my Zoe, and had the time and discipline to match the paci, to the outfit, to the socks, to the bow. She was always ready for a photo op. Now, I am lucky if my kids get out of the house in something other than a tutu or pajamas, or any clothing at all really, as they often dress (or don‘t dress) themselves, and they may have inherited their mama’s style gene, which is not an example of forward evolution. But wait, there’s more!

The beautiful throw pillows my sweet mother made for our couch, have essentially become a permanent makeshift toddler bed on our bedroom floor…as well as a constant reminder of our downward spiral into epic sleep-training failure. But wait, there’s more!