Yesterday I went to a friend’s house, where four women plus me gathered with their kids in an informal playgroup. I watched as the children, all older and bigger than The Kid, wobbled around the room, and the moms chatted distractedly with each other, conversation interspersed with phrases like, “Because those are the rules!” and “You’re headed for time out.”

I looked down at TK, slurping his paci inches from my face, and thought for the millionth time: When did I become a mother?

I’m such a Miranda.

It seems an ill-fitting title, much like fiancee sounded pretentious (hello, I don’t speak French) upon my engagement and wife sounded impossibly adult upon my marriage. I have a long way to go before I grow into motherhood–like, the-rest-of-my-life long. Then there’s the inevitable conflict–reflected even in our plan for me to work a part-time schedule–between the part of me that needs to be surrounded by other mothers for advice and commiseration purposes and the part of me that finds all this talk of tummy time and car seats slightly mind-numbing. I mean, where’s the wine?

Find me in the magazine section at the bookstore and I will be the one holding a copy of Us Weekly rather than Parents every time.

But here I am anyway, and I work on reconciling the faith that this role is one of the many for which I was made with the fact that I may never be fluent in baby talk. I have grown accustomed to the “two steps forward, one step back” brand of schedule that accompanies  living with a newborn, and besides, I’m a Type-A people-pleaser: feelings of inadequacy are nothing new. But I still flail wildly about as I try to swat them away, like I did while leaning over TK’s crib the other night at bedtime. The Husband was out playing basketball, and I assigned the blame to him as to why TK wouldn’t calm down and go to sleep like usual.  What magic does TH have that I don’t? The crying eventually quieted and I returned to my bed only to hear it pick up again. But along with the rise in blood pressure came the Voice that speaks so frequently, the one that means either God exists or I’m crazy, and it told me the truth: that sometimes I need to be reminded that I’m not meant to do it alone.

The Bro-in-Law is coming over in an hour so I can get out and walk; The Sis frequents our house weekly; and sometimes, The Kid will not go to sleep unless Daddy is home. These are not points of weakness on my part but designs on a life that was not meant to be lived in seclusion. Hard for me to admit, but irresistible enough for me not to embrace.