Monday morning traffic isn’t so bad if you leave at the right time.  Even better if you have a reverse commute from the city to the suburbs.  I like to start the ride with some Deepak Chopra wisdom, before switching quickly to the Erasure station on Pandora. Because in pursuing your own pure joy, you trigger a chain of events that will eventually create happiness for the whole world – I think the Dalai Lama said that.  Or maybe my friend after too much wine.  Anyway, what says joy better than a reverbing synthesizer?

On that particular day I even have time to sit at the red light and pull down the mirror to check my hair.  Gee, my hair looks terrific!  And I hadn’t even noticed.  I got my hair done two days ago.  I am suddenly sick to my stomach at the realization that I have wasted a solid forty-eight hours of good hair time.  All because ninety percent of my attention has been sucked up by a kid.  That leaves ten percent for everything else, including husband, pudgy cat and the redhead basset.

Yes, I now have a kid.  But I am not going to be writing about parenting.  Or the joys of children.  Or the maternal instinct swooping in to save the day.  First and foremost, this is a blog about fretting.  I hope I’ll still have the wherewithal to do it gracefully, but one never knows how these things turn out.

There are plastic toys in my living room.  Every morning my dining table seems to have a light film of last night’s dinner on it.  I am holding slimy wet rags all day long.  Humans I have just met ask me if I love mothering.  I forget things constantly, except my grudges.

So there will clearly be plenty to challenge my anxiety in new and exciting ways.  Just ahead we have the “I don’t eat red food” years, followed by the awkward light acne years.  Then the blissful teenage years, right before the college tuition scramble where I give up my Portuguese villa fund, sort of willingly.  Nerves, get ready to enjoy this journey of self-discovery.  And try to look poised, please.