by Maggie Downs posted in Life

In the first couple years of motherhood, I thought I lost myself.
It wasn?t that I didn?t love being a mom. I did. I loved the yogurty smell of my son as an infant and his tiny sweet breaths as he dozed on my shoulder. I loved how each day was like slowly tugging open a curtain, revealing a little more of my son?s personality. I even loved how his colicky screaming fits made his laughter even more extraordinary.
What I didn?t love was how motherhood made me feel less like me.
I used to travel, budget-style, with a backpack and a lots of long, open roads. I ate meals when they were still hot. I had hobbies that went well beyond washing cloth diapers and going to Target. And maybe most important of all, I used to read. I read the New York Times in print on Sunday mornings, and I had stacks of library books next to my bed. Even my e-reader overfloweth.

And then after I gave birth, I just didn?t. I bought books, and they just sat there looking at me like, ?Who are you kidding"? I still listened to audiobooks, and those were usually pretty great, but I often missed chunks of the story (see: colicky infant, above) and I genuinely missed holding something in print.
So take that feeling of being a hollowed-out shell, combine it with the immobilizing loneliness of new motherhood when it felt like all of my old friends disappeared, and you have the worst recipe ever. It?s no wonder I was sad all the time.
It?s better now that my son is older. H...