For New Years I’ve decided – or it has been decided for me – that I will unbecome. I believe it was my two children who formed the “Unbecoming” planning committee. They had many meetings. Meetings that were punctuated with screams, long snack breaks, and many disagreements. But they came to the final conclusion – some things just needed to be let go.

I am unbecoming a woman whose eyebrows rest. I have become a woman whose eyebrows, like a cartoon’s eyebrows, hover above her hairline in a state of constant disbelief at her current circumstances, nay the state of the entire world. What’s happening now? My 2 year old has thrown an entire bowl of rice onto the floor? My facial muscles are primed and ready for shock. And what’s that I hear? My 5 year old is scream-singing “Let it Go!” for the five thousandth time? My eyebrows scrunch together in an attempt to block out the screeching. What’s that I hear on the news? They’ve banned ALL the books? They’ve gone full Fahrenheit 451? No worries, my mouth is open, my eyebrows are hovering, my arms are up. I’m ready!

I am unbecoming a woman who can hold her pee just by crossing her legs. I have become a woman who must, like a 3 year old who desperately needs to pee but doesn’t want to stop building their lego tower, hold my crotch with my hand, cross my legs, and shuffle quickly – but carefully! – to the nearest bathroom. If I do not, I will pee in my pants. Just a little.

I am unbecoming a woman who notices when something has been thrown at her head. I have become invincible to flying toy cars, stuffed animals, and other miscellaneous knick knacks. My skull has become a helmet – impervious to both the emotional and physical perils of both of my darling children. Bouncy balls feel like cotton balls, dolls feel like pillows, insults feel like blankets. Maybe I’m just tired? Maybe I have a concussion!

I am unbecoming a woman who is surprised when she has a 2 year old buddy with her while she goes to the bathroom. I have become a woman who can block the way to the plunger behind the toilet with one leg so that it isn’t used like a sword; with the other leg, press closed the trash can lid so that used pads don’t get strewn across the bathroom like grenades; hold the toilet paper roll with her elbow – so that it isn’t completely unraveled and pulled through the bathroom door, into the hallway, and up the stairs like Hansel & Gretel trying to find their way back to the bathroom; and sing the fucking itsy bitsy spider, all while pooping. I’m putting that skill on my resume!

I am unbecoming a woman who walks through Target silently, smugly checking things off my list, perusing the myriads of plastic containers, imagining how my life will fit into these little boxes, as a peaceful smile spreads across my well-rested face.

I have become, instead, a woman who talks nonstop, narrating her life excitedly.
“Ok, mommy needs more pads, lalala, pads, where are the pads? Pads starts with “P”, the letter of the day is, “P”!
Do you want some water?
No?
Please don’t throw the bottle.
Oops mommy forgot to get cheerios, let’s go get cheerios.
Turn the cart around, turn it upsidedoooowwwn!
Are you hungry? What did you do with your snack?
Oh! You threw it on the floor, right where it belongs, don’t worry, I got it!!
Let’s find the diapers, lalalaleeeetttt’s fiiiiinddd the d-d-d-diiiaaapperrrrs!!”

I am unbecoming a woman who can lay her head down on her pillow. Instead my head levitates above my pillow from the sheer stress of being. I have become a woman with a perpetual neck crick. A woman who needs a special neck pillow.

I am unbecoming a woman who pees herself “just a little.” It’s not “just a little.” You caught me! I have become a woman who lies about how much she pees when she sneezes or coughs or jumps or runs. It’s more than “just a little” and less than “a lot”. Not like the plink, plink, plink, of a leaky faucet. More like a quick squirt of a small water gun. Just enough that I need to change my underwear, just enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to remind me that my pelvic floor has become like a sagging hammock; weakened, tired.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to tighten up that sagging, weakened hammock. Maybe I’ll become a woman who can do a kegel! Just one. A little one! Ok, maybe I’ll become a woman who understands what a kegel truly is. Next year.