We warned you that when you become a parent, life takes on new meaning. You weren’t necessarily told that certain words too, which will never mean the same thing as before.
Before, it was a hot substance that you tasted in the morning before you could be spoken to.
Now it’s a cold substance that you swallow, explaining that no, you are not allowed to go to school in fins and that yes, the coat in -2° is essential.
It used to be what you sometimes saw on the highway, on vacation departure days.
Now, that’s what you strongly suspect when your kid shows up looking guilty and smells a little like sewer.
Before, it was a period that you looked forward to finally being able to rest and forget your worries and which, like all good things, passed too quickly and did not return often enough in the year.
Now it’s a phobia that recurs 121 days a year, and during which the days last a thousand hours. This probably explains the exorbitant price of daycare solutions that you are forced to find or the severity of the depression that you type in each time.
Before, it was a closed place where you engaged in some activities essential to the proper functioning of your body.
Now it’s a place of passage, the nerve center of the house, in which you recite multiplication tables, listen to stories, while wiping other buttocks than yours.
Before, it was a bit anxiety-inducing for you, especially at dinner, and even more so when someone had the good idea to say “An angel is passing”.
Now it’s a dream that you’re slowly starting to let go, because you’re down to earth.
Before, it was the thing that was attached to the back of a horse to ride on.
Now, it’s the word you say at the pharmacy and at the doctor’s, to talk about your child’s transit without saying “poo”.
Before, she was a woman you feared because she could potentially break your relationship.
Now, she’s a woman you dread because she spends more time with your child than you do and she can potentially ask you to go on a school outing.
Before, it was a leg bone that you were afraid of breaking, and that you confused with the fibula.
Now it’s the muscle you’re rehabilitating playing the console with your vagina, because you’ve been promised that’s the only way to stop peeing while sneezing.
Before, it was the time when you thought you were Carry Bradshaw with your bags full of clothes that you already had in duplicate but were so on sale that it was really worth it.
Now is the time when you realize that you still bought only for your children, and by the time you get home, half of the clothes are already too small.
Before, it was the character trait of an individual (your bank advisor, for example), who lacked flexibility, open-mindedness and fun.
Now it’s a recurring topic of discussion with your parent buddies, and also why you massage your baby’s tummy, would rather suffer for him, buy Hepar, don’t get much sleep, and realize how lucky you are every time you go to the bathroom.
Before, it was the color of the sky, the sea, and Bradley Cooper’s eyes.
Now that’s the proof written on your child’s forehead that you should have kept your promise when you told him: “On three you jump, and I’ll catch you!” »
Before, it was a swelling thing that cost you an arm as a gift and a lot of energy to support your neurotic family.
Now is a magical time that costs you two arms but makes your child’s eyes sparkle and makes you want to believe in Santa again.