On Tuesday night Greg and I left V at home with the nanny and went out to dinner. I defied winter by wearing high heels and a top that was in no way winter-practical. We drank cocktails and ate copious amounts of finely crafted sushi. I don't even eat meat anymore but I still partook in a ridiculously good appetizer involving very thinly sliced sirloin and a rock that has literally been heated to 600 degrees.
Greg and I laughed and spilled a little wine and we leaned into each other and we talked and talked.
I had forgotten how good it felt to be us, just me and Greg out in the world, on a date.
As I felt myself do so I realized I have forgotten how to relax.
Being a parent is confusing. It's the ultimate identity crisis.
I can hardly remember what it was like to come home from work with an entire unplanned evening stretching out before me, to not think about what time I would go to bed or how much sleep I might get. I can hardly remember what it was like to decide to go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon on a moment's notice.
I don't remember what it was like to eat a meal languidly, to not feel as though I have to finish it as fast I can because I need to be prepared for whatever is coming next. I can't remember what it was like to drink too many glasses of wine, to stumble to bed tipsy, not worrying about anyone or anything.
I don't remember what it was like to carry a tiny purse, just lip gloss, a cell phone and a credit card. I don't remember what it was like to think about the future as a flat, irresponsible thing, a span of time all mine.
But I also don't remember a time when I loved anyone as much as I love my daughter. I don't remember ever wanting to be with someone the way I want to be with her. I don't recall anyone ever smiling at me the way she does, first thing in the morning, her eyes closing as a soft, little smile spreads across her face.
There are little moments, the way he leans into me as we walk through a fancy cocktail lounge together, that make me remember my old life, the one before her. But then there is her and her warm hand on my cheek as she sleeps, hot breath on my neck.
All the things I don't remember are practically irrelevant. They are no longer. There is only now and this and her and me and him. There are hours and days and time that moves so, so fast.


