By Sarah Hirsch

This me.
This me comes home from work with a list of to-dos, no end in sight.
This me bribes greedy fingers with candy when she needs a few extra minutes.
This me knows how to reason with a toddler—the humility in submission—
This me has learned when to bend and how not to break.

That me.
That me was carefree.
She was led by her heart to each place where she felt the pull of
Mystery, intrigue, independence.
With only one person to consider, herself.
That me was unencumbered but also uninspired.

This me is the glue of a family of three.
She holds the tottering position of both essentiality
And unavailability.
This me wakes several times each night
Hoping that someday her son will sleep, sleep, sleep.
Knowing that each naptime taken, each milestone missed
Will be worth it someday.

Occasionally This me longs for That me,
Missing the freedom she once took for granted.
But That me had no comprehension of the sheer weight of love.
Love that consumes every vein, every pore.
Love with the ability to transform.