Holy S**t I'm a mom!

The title may come across as a bit of a surprise given that I've had three months to come to terms with that piece of information. But it wasn't until I found myself cutting coupons with scrapbooking scissors that it hit me like a concrete block thrown from a skyscraper.

Boom. Right in the face. I'm a mom.

Fifty cents off one (1) Sparkle Package. 2 Giant rolls or Larger. Cut with artfully wavy edges.

The scrapbook itself was another indication, as Andy and I had made a mutual deal back in college. If I didn't scrapbook, then he wouldn't watch Curb Your Enthusiasm. I suppose I should get ready for a steady stream of Larry David's obnoxious hijinks, because once you're a mom, scrapbooking is more of an instinct than a hobby. Photo albums just don't cut it anymore. How will you people understand the context of Annika's first bath if I don't have a raised sticker of a rubber ducky that inexplicably costs $3.99 pasted alongside the picture?

Then I took a good long look at myself, and gasped in fright. In Fremont, where I work, there is an abundance of meth-addled individuals loitering among the streets. You can always tell them apart from the others because they engage all of your senses in a highly unpleasant fashion.

But here I was, in a blue terry-cloth bathrobe adorned with thick white streaks of vomit. It was loosely tied, because let's face it, nursing women shouldn't bother to overdress. My hair was a tangled mess perched on my head. My glasses were coated with grime, I'd long since forgotten to trim my toenails, and I was singing "bababababab googoogoogoo." at the top of my lungs.

I realized that the only thing setting me apart from the speed crowd of Seattle is what we have in our arms. They have track lines, I have a baby. Other than that we seem to have an unsettling amount of common ground.

And I love every second of it. Like those poor addicted individuals, I can't get enough of my addiction: my sweet little girl. She loves me in spite of my being so odd. When I tried to amuse her by sliding across my floor a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business but accidentally tripped over my 13 year old mentally disabled golden retriever and face planted myself on the sofa, it was the best thing in the world to her.

I can play with toys again without it being weird. I can do all of those things that society causes us to repress. I sing, I dance with no talent whatsoever, I make goofy faces and pointless observations. I make up words, and Annika loves all of it. That smile of hers makes me melt. Whoever said this was the most difficult job in the world is clearly out of his or her mind. Any job that requires you to say "Oh princess you made stinky boom boom in your diapey!" is not on the level with theoretical particle physics. Let's not kid ourselves. But it is, without a doubt, the best and most important job in the world, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

And for the record: I have never actually used the words "made stinky boom boom in your diapey!" I'm a scientist, dammit. In this household it's "Oh look! You have made an excretory deposit into your cotton disposal unit."