Last week, Ted and I celebrated our third anniversary with an extravagant meal at the kind of It restaurant we never felt the urge to frequent before having Finn, the kind of place where you pay $32 for pasta just to prove your life is good. Then we went home to bed and fell into each other's arms—asleep.
Not very sexy, is it? The old me would have willed herself out of that food coma. But I'm not sure where that girl is or if she'll be back. Sometimes I think, Why bother getting her back if I'm just going to get knocked up again in a year? Why bother to lose the last six pounds, wax my bikini line, get highlights, go to work, make a good impression, strive for a promotion—if all I really want out of life is to have Ted love me unconditionally and to feel the weight of our baby in my arms; to kiss Finn's tiny earlobes and keep him safe?
Then I remember: Oh, yeah, I want more than that. In spite of all the sad morning goodbyes, in spite of the pit of longing I feel for my child at this very moment, I still want more, need more, than him.
I want money. I want, someday, to sit with Ted on the steps of our very own Brooklyn townhouse, on a balmy Friday evening, after the kids are tucked away in their pillowy beds, and eat dessert. Money could buy that.
And I want to become more accomplished, professionally, with every decade. I don't want to remember my 20s (the dot-com-company years) as the apex of my ambitiousness.
And I want to remember how good it feels to be a little impractical, a little impulsive, a little vain—the woman who taught Ted that worrying is the opposite of living. Don't get me wrong, I don't wish to go back—I'm done with that life. I wish to be a combination of the person I was before Finn and the person I feel myself on the way to becoming—wise, grateful, and the most fearless mommy on the block.
