For 35 years, I had a clean house and an empty car.
For 35 years, I had a pelvis without a scar on it.
For 35 years, I had to only feed myself.
For 35 years, I had to just walk outside and listen to the rain for as long as I wanted, with no concern about who was left inside.
For 35 years, I had the ability to go out of town anytime I wanted, and I could stay for hours, or days.
For 35 years, I had plenty of money to spend on eating out, tickets, entertainment, trips, and anything random or stupid that I wanted.
For 35 years, I had the chance to take a bath, read a book, eat lunch, walk at the park, get some sun, or go to the library, anytime the urge struck.
For 35 years, I didn’t have someone that smiled and went “Ahhh” when my face was the first thing they saw when they woke up.
For 35 years, I didn’t have tiny clothes and burp cloths on every surface of my house.
For 35 years, I didn’t have to go down the baby clothes aisle every time I was at Target, “just to look”.
For 35 years, I didn’t have a clue what it was like to cry – hard – every time I heard about a mother losing her child.
For 35 years, I didn’t have a little round face looking back at me in my rearview mirror while I was driving.
For 35 years, I didn’t have a tiny warm body curled up asleep on my chest.
For 35 years, I didn’t have any idea what it felt like to have someone kick and nudge you from the inside.
For 35 years, I didn’t have mugs in my cabinet that said ambitious things like “Super Mom” or “Best Mom Ever”.
And for 35 years, I didn’t have to change diapers, worry about the consistency of baby poop, wash bottles and bassinet sheets every 24 hours, constantly feed a little 10 pound creature, run on 2 hours of sleep, carry a car seat, recover from a delivery, plan things around a nap schedule, fret nonstop about germs and viruses, and do research about babies until 3 in the morning.
For 35 years, I didn’t have you.
And boy, was I missing out.