Bladder control when I sneeze, laugh, do jumping jacks, or stand up from a seated position.
The desire to party, unless said partying involves lying on a couch watching old episodes of Hart to Hart while spraying a can of Reddi-Whip into my mouth in short, steady bursts.
The nail on my big toe, after angrily kicking a semifunctional Diaper Genie and telling it (unironically) to "EAT SH*T!"
My memory of the last time my bras were washed. (Nearest estimate, spring 2011.)
The ability to stay awake in a movie theater.
Or while watching a TV show after six o'clock.
Or while reading an e-mail.
Or right now.
My virginity. (Just making sure at least one of us is paying attention.)
The capacity to wake up at 5 a.m. to go for a jog.
All credibility for implying that there was ever a time that I woke up at 5 a.m. to go for a jog.
The combination to locker 623 at the gym that I have been paying $45 a month since November 2007 to use, but which I have not actually set foot inside since March 2008.
The notion that babies are pure, innocent, loving souls, replaced by the knowledge that they are the neediest, most narcissistic creatures in the universe (with the exception of a boss I once had whose ability to turn every conversation back to her was so amazing, upon reflection it may have been a superpower).
Patience for the sound of children whining, after one minute.
Patience for the sound of adults whining, after 20 seconds.
My crush on my OB-GYN ever since the day that I looked between my legs and saw him one elbow deep inside me, the other arm holding a cell phone to his ear telling his wife that he may be late for dinner but that he would almost certainly be able to make the 8:00 show.
Since laying spread-eagle on a gurney in the hallway of a maternity ward, the concern that someone might see my naked body. Now I couldn't care less if someone were to post in Times Square a high-def 50-foot nude photo of me popping a chest pimple.
The beeper number to my pot dealer.
My badass rep.
OK, I never actually had a badass rep. Or a pot dealer, for that matter.
The job that I interviewed for when I was eight months pregnant, and after the interviewer asked, "Aren't you due to have a baby next month?" I said, "Yeah, I'll probably lay low for a coupla weeks afterward, but I should be ready to get back to work after two, three weeks... tops."
My sh*t, just now, upon rereading #19.
A handle on current events; if pop culture knowledge was an animal, mine would resemble a groundhog emerging every six weeks to randomly yell out a social trend ("Gangnam Style!" "Ryan Gosling!" "Game of Thrones!") only to retreat back into its hole of social oblivion and stale macaroni for another six weeks.
My belief that children can be "molded" into anything other than who they intrinsically are.
An argument with another new mom -- a close friend -- over the use of baby leashes.
My friendship with that mom.
The ability to enjoy any form of entertainment in which a child is in danger, even though when I was a kid I couldn't get enough of it, and when Flowers in the Attic came out my friends and I passed that dog-eared paperback around the fourth grade like it was a Playboy and hoped/wished/prayed that someone would lock us in their crawl space, and when no one did, we all wondered what was wrong with us.
A lifelong family friend to a heart attack -- a decidedly unfunny event.
The illusion that anything in life is guaranteed.
The capacity to dwell on emotionally painful topics.
The hard shell around my heart, causing me to weep openly at the beauty of life as it manifests in such moments as an elderly couple holding hands, a plastic bag blowing in the wind, or a pair of feral cats copulating in my backyard.