In 7 weeks or so, it’s not always going to matter what Danny and I want to do. Guido isn’t going to care that I need to have a dance party in the kitchen with my husband right now. Danny and I won’t be able to decide on a whim that if we don’t go somewhere for dessert immediately, we’ll die.
|As much as we love to support small businesses, we really can't get enough of Applebee's Triple Chocolate Meltdown.|
No more spontaneous naps or impromptu other-things-people-do-all-over-the-house-when-they’re-in-love. Guido will be our first priority.
I’m absolutely not saying this is going to suck. If I haven’t made it clear yet that I’d do anything for our baby, then this blog is a big fat fail. Our tiny little family of 2 (and a bunch of animals) is becoming a less-tiny family of 3 (and a bunch of animals). It’s awesome and exciting—but it’s going to be such a huge change. A change we're ready for, but still. A change.
I think what freaks me out even more than all of this is the fear of losing my own identity. Maybe “fear” is too strong of a word—but it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot.
Months ago, I happened upon a blogger who, in her blog description, said something like, “I’m Cara. Well, for now, anyway! Soon, I’ll be Aiden’s Mommy!” (I changed both of those names because I’m not a complete asshole.) Ummm, what? This is exactly what I don’t want to happen to me. I want to be Guido’s mom and Amanda—forever. And I want to be awesome at both of those things, not just one or the other.
We see this all the time. People aren’t always as blatant about it as “Cara,” but think of your newsfeed on Facebook, for example. I’ve been referring to it as “Babybook” for a couple years now. As soon as some people have babies, they lose the ability to update the world about anything else. It drives me insane, and I unsubscribe from all of these people—and no, I don’t make exceptions. (I’ve unsubscribed from my own sister.) I’m not Facebook friends with your baby. I’m Facebook friends with you. (And why is your profile picture a photo of your baby? That isn't you. I'm confused.) I don’t need to know what your kid is wearing every Friday. Get a blog, and when I feel like looking at random babies, I'll go read it. I'm less bothered by people who post about their babies as well as other things.
I’m sure a lot of this annoyance stems from my miscarriages—and remembering how gut-wrenching it was to see baby after baby after baby in my newsfeed during my darkest hour. (While we're on the subject, get your ultrasound photos off Facebook. You have no idea how much you could be hurting somebody... and if you've suffered a loss and still have ultrasound photos on Facebook, double-shame on you.)
But I didn't like being inundated by baby photos and totes adorbs stories before that. It's so strange that people think their entire friends list cares that much about their baby. They don't! I promise. Do these look-at-my-baby-right-now-all-the-time people have nothing else going on in their lives? I'm sure being a parent is freaking incredible, but have they all become just parents? Have they lost sight of who they are as people?
This isn't going to fly in the Celis household, mark my words. Yes, Danny and I will share the occasional photo of Guido on Facebook, but even after Guido is safely in my arms, I'm going to be me: still irreverent, with the same interests I've had forever—and I'll always find this hilarious:
And don't worry. Danny will still post photos of monkeys running away with puppies, our cats cuddling on the couch, idiotic vanity plates, and what he's eating for dinner. He'll still complain that nobody can spell, the bank's new radio ad is awful, and Scooter destroyed his <insert expensive item he uses every day here>. He'll still be a well-rounded person—and a better parent because of it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dance party to attend.