Taking stock, doing a once-over to check for battle wounds. What has become of me, now that the end of the birthing and breastfeeding gauntlet is near? Scars? Pinches? Puckers? Droops? Check: all of the above. I am the same as I was, pound for pound. As they say, it takes nine months to gain it and about the same to lose it. But weighing the same and being the same are two completely different things.

The prospect of aging has never kept me up at night. But… but. In the mirror is a nonsensical cocktail of wrinkles and sags, youthful energy and zits. I am less elastic, less supple. My knees are sore in the morning, yet I feel more capable than ever before. This is the thirties, a decade of change and contradictions. I no longer feel ‘cute’, but substantial. Ten times the woman I was before Evan.

The other night Justin looked at me and said, “Your ba-ooo-gaa boobs are gone!” And so they are. The only mark that lingers is my belly stripe, faded but true.

And right on cue, the lobbying has begun: Sooo! When will Evan get a little brother or sister? Please, for the love of all that’s holy, let me enjoy a couple of years of hard-won back-to-normalness first.