You Know You’re a Mom when…

Sleep sounds better than sex, shopping, sea salt caramel macaroons.

7pm seems like a perfectly acceptable bedtime. For you.

7pm is the best part of your day.

You feel guilty for saying that.

You feel guilty every moment of every day.

You call your partner “Daddy”. You slap yourself.

You’ve never disliked your partner more.

You’ve never needed your partner more.

You complain your partner doesn’t do enough.

You redo all of the helpful things your partner does.

You size up strollers, toddler toys and mother’s put togetherness the way you used to look at other women’s shoes.

You still check out cute dads the way you always did but, now, nothing is more attractive than a hot dad disciplining. Swoon.

You eat more than you ever did. You’re up more hours in the day. You need more energy. You’re breastfeeding. You just stopped breastfeeding. You never breastfed. You’re eating off the tray, middle of day, late at night. You’re eating dessert for dinner while you still can.

You never eat. You forget to feed yourself breakfast, barely manage to get your kid(s) to eat before you have to head out the door to X, Y and Z Gymboree.

You find yourself full of hard-earned advice but don’t give it.

You cut other moms a break.

You wish other friends would cut you one.

You start a running list, in addition to all of the others, of friends you need to call.

You don’t call them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’ll call them.

Tomorrow comes. Tomorrow goes. No call.

You haven’t seen a movie since 2012.

You can’t name what’s playing at the cineplex.

You use the word cineplex.

You mess up the names of your friends and their kids. Calling the mom, the daughter’s name. The husband, the son’s. Whatever.

You watch the clock by the minute from 5:30-6:30pm praying, for his sake, he gets his butt home stat.

You dream about naps like you used to dream about winning the lotto.

That list taunts you. You’re a bad friend.

You stare longingly at young couples in love, pre-children remembering the days you were there. You glance over at your partner and, for a second… He farts. The second’s over.

You glare at young couples in love, pre-children. How dare they flaunt their independence in your face? Don’t they know you’re a mother?

You take ramps and elevators sans stroller and kids because you’re now preconditioned. People look at you like you’re a lazy POS.

The sound of another child crying makes your female organs weep.

You catch other children when they fall.

Your child sends the iPad a Mother’s Day card.

A plane flight without kids feels like the most luxurious break in the world. You’d pay to fly cross-country and back just for the solitude.

Procrastination has taken on a whole new meaning.

Your nails resemble Llyod’s from Dumb and Dumber.

When you finally make it to the nail salon, you tip extra for what the technician has to endure. Likewise for your waxer.

Your razor is rusty from nonuse.

Your diaper bag is your new purse. A bottomless pit, loaded with crap, weighing 20lbs.

It contains: 2 pair of socks, 3 kinds of sunblock, sunglasses, sunhat, 4 bibs, beaucoup burpcloths, 5 diapers, boogie wipes, face wipes, sunscreen wipes, ten teethers, an empty bottle, leaky sippy cup, 1 lone shoe and crushed crackers in every crevice.

You find dirty wipes in your pocket, soggy crackers in your hair and talking toys in your bed.

You drink more than you did in college. It’s just now in more sociably acceptable formats. Like sippy cups filled with wine in the park.

You’re a hostage in your own home. When the sitter’s there and you’re hiding out in your room. When your child has fallen asleep in their stroller, you’ve just arrived home and don’t dare move them or make a noise. When you’re in bed, pretending to be asleep so your partner will have to get up and get the baby.

You sneak in and out of your kids bedroom at night and the house when a sitter’s there like you’re in high school heading to a party again. Tiptoe, freeze, duck, run!

You wince as other people (read: complete strangers) touch your pregnant belly, your baby’s feet, child’s cheeks and hair.

You sanitize everything.

You no longer sanitize anything. Floor food, communal toys, dirt… It’s all good. It builds up their immune system.

Your child is dressed to the nines. You look homeless.

Your child is in mismatched, stained, wet and worn PJ’s. And it’s 3pm. And you’re at the store. And you could care less.

One if you is constantly sick. Then, once you’re finally in the clear, someone catches something and you start the mucousy, pukey cycle all over again.

You try to negotiate with a toddler. You lose.

You point out every little, basic object on your outing like Rain Man in a slow-mo, high-pitched voice. “Caaar. Treeee. Doooog. Biiiird.”

You used to choose restaurants based on the menu, reviews, ambience…

You now choose according to stroller accessibility, high-chair quality and the least amount of objects that can be used as weapons.

You’re so damn tired.

You find yourself talking diarrhea-of-the-mouth style to the babysitter, dry cleaner, grocery store cashier. Anyone that’s adult. Anyone that can say coherent words back to you.

You don’t stop there. You talk to yourself. Like a lot. Like maybe more than is clinically acceptable.

You really should call those friends.

Your new on time is twenty minutes late.

You swear today will be the day that changes. It’s not.

Speaking of swearing, you do it more than you ever thought possible. Aren’t you supposed to stop that soon?

You’ve never felt tired like this.

You come from a place of no.

You are frustrated beyond belief.

You may snap any moment.

You snap.

You feel bad for snapping. You promise you won’t do it again.

You do it again.

You look forward to Mom’s Night Out like it’s Spring Break 2000.

You cancel Mom’s Night Out. You’re too tired.

You love harder, feel deeper and fear greater than you ever thought possible.

You make (and read!) lists like these. They make you feel better than the other ones.