Identity Crisis

     Sometimes I have trouble unplugging from mommy-hood.  Just now, for instance, I told my husband I was going to hole up in our bedroom for a while and have some alone time.  But I heard Clara coming up the stairs, saying, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" and part of me wanted to ditch the whole me-time thing and go hang out some more with her.  In spite of the fact that I spend all day, every day, hanging out with her.
     I pictured myself getting up, going downstairs to the playroom and trying to engage with the Winnie the Pooh sticker book or help Clara put one of my socks that she's mined from the clothes drier on Raggedy Ann (instant thigh-high stocking for Raggedy).
     But I know if I was hanging out downstairs, I'd be longing to come upstairs and work on my blog or read one of my thriller novels.
     A similar thing happens when I get a late-night craving: I head down the stairs for a chocolate cupcake from Albertsons at one in the morning (Trans fats? Yes. High fructose corn syrup? Absolutely.).  Halfway down the stairs, I say, "Wait a tick, it's one in the morning.  You should go to bed and wait to have the cupcake for breakfast."
     So I start back upstairs, but then change my mind again and head back down to the kitchen.  A person watching from afar might liken my movements to those of a gerbil, empty of logic and reason, darting back and forth on electrical impulse alone.  A gerbil, or maybe the UPS man.
     The analogy between the cupcake and the baby is imperfect, though.  The cupcake indecision has a lot to do with guilt.  Doctor Oz says you shouldn't snack after seven at night.  Even when I picture him saying those words shirtless, I still feel remorse.
     I sometimes feel guilty when I'm not hanging with Clara, yes. But it's more than that.  When you spend your whole day anticipating when someone's going to have to pee, and making sure they understand why it's not right to chuck a can of Diamond-brand almonds at a strange man in the grocery store (or why it's not ok to throw rocks at the dog), and trying to remember how many fruits and veggies they've had today, and trying to figure out how to channel all the love you feel for them into a consistent way of parenting that won't disfigure them or turn them into hardened criminals--when that's your focus all day, you sometimes lose sight of your own identity.
     So the struggle is between caving into the ease of doing what I've done all day--hanging with Clara--and trying to remember who, exactly, I am and what it was I wanted to do with my life.