I don’t want to stand next to my partner at parties, watching him field questions about his career and hobbies, while I get “So…how’s THE BABY?” I don’t want motherhood to permeate all of my writing, my thinking, my identity. I don’t want to stress about bosses or colleagues thinking that I’m ducking out for maybe TOO many pediatrician appointments. I don’t want to worry that they’ll realize during my parental leave that, huh, they can get along just fine without me. I don’t want to tap my mental brakes when I consider ambitious projects because I’m a busy mom now. I don’t want “Mom” as a qualifier or a modifier or an amplifier – I don’t want to do something impressive in the nearish future (write a book, run a marathon PR, win whatever award) and for anyone to add, “And she’s a NEW MOM.” I don’t want my friends to dread my texts, knowing that an onslaught of “You’ll never guess what Junior said today” is coming, or perhaps my ninth “Guys I’m so tired and were you aware that being a parent is HARD” of the day. I don’t want my partner to feel he always comes second. I don’t want myself to feel like I always come twelfth. I don’t want my brainful of jokes and long-memorized Chopin preludes and quotes from novels and verbatim 30 Rock exchanges to be displaced by daycare pickup and dropoff times or encyclopedic lists of the preschool class’s food allergies. Other parents inform me that new-parenthood is the end of freedom and sleep and an easy marriage and unstained clothes and enjoyable vacations…and I’m not ready for my life to be drained of joy just yet.