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   Don’t you just hate it when you lose stuff? It drives me nuts. I turn my house upside down until I’ve found what I’m looking for. Or, when it becomes obvious that said object doesn’t want to be found, I simply give up and hope that it’ll turn up sooner or later.
    But I’m not sure if I’ll find what I’ve misplaced this time, nor do I know where to look for it. Maybe you’ve seen it. Here’s a description, in case you come across it:
    “LOST: Fun-loving female who digs ’80s music, bookstores, shopping, dancing, Rollerblading, comedies, poetry, long naps, quiet time alone. Answers to “Felicia” or “Fe-Fe.” Last seen around the late ’90s. Reward offered.”
    It seems that my identity, those things that are the essence of me, disappeared five kids, 15 pounds and several gray hairs ago.
    The last time I saw Fe-Fe, she was adventurous, happy-go-lucky and seemingly fearless.
    She’d dance the night away and still get up on time for work the next morning.
    She criss-crossed the country on Thelma & Louise trips with her best friend, Donnia.
    She skied, skipping the bunny slope and heading straight for the top of the mountain on her first try.
    She was even bold enough to go skydiving — once.
    So I’m desperately seeking Fe-Fe, hoping to reconnect with the woman I was before marriage and kids. Lord knows I adore my husband and our five children, but sometimes I think about running away, just for a little while.
    Does that sound strange? Probably, but all stay-at-home parents deserve a vacation, or at least time off for good behavior.
    I’m not planning to go AWOL or anything. I just need to find myself again. How? I don’t know, but maybe I need to retrace my steps to see exactly where I lost my inner Fe-Fe.
    1999: Got married; instantly became “wife” and  “stepmom.”
    Early 2000: Became pregnant; ditched Rollerblades for safer exercise; dumped comedies for TV shows about giving birth; buried my head in more parenting books than novels.
    Late 2000: Gave birth to my first child; was proud to be known as “Mommy” but wondered if I needed to dress more motherly; had no idea what “mom clothes” were, but thought they were unsexy things like double-knit pants and ugly shoes; bought some.
    2002:  Had another baby; became known as the “marathon nurser” because this child was attached to me 24-7.
    2003: On a road trip to Austin, Fe-Fe tried to emerge but got kicked to the curb. I enjoyed the peaceful drive but was too worried about my newborn at home and her milk supply; skipped late night on 6th Street to turn in early.
    2004: Briefly tried Rollerblading again while teaching my kids to use their new skates; nearly busted my tail in front of the neighbors while trying to show my babies how smooth I was with the turnaround; tossed skates – and my alter ego – into the garage.
    2005: Became “mother of four” with birth of another child; tied with two others in our subdivision for “mom with the most kids.”
    2006: Entered the land of playdates, PTA and ’round-the-clock kiddie care as a stay-at-home mommy.
    2009: Gave birth to child No. 5 the day before Independence Day. Saw that as a sign to reclaim MY independence.
    I know she – me – is in here somewhere, and I really wish she’d show her face more often. She’s probably not sure where she fits in.
    It kinda reminds me of when I visited my old high school several years after graduating. Things still looked the same on the outside, but inside everything had changed: the students, the teachers, the cafeteria ladies. And so had I.
    So I’ll make a deal with you, Fe-Fe. You can come out to play, but only under certain conditions:
    If you still want to have long phone chats with your mom and sisters, you’re gonna have to do it in chunks of time — and with countless interruptions.
    If you insist on wandering aimlessly through your favorite music store, and quietly listening to those CDs that you’ve bought, get rid of that idea. Use Amazon, iTunes and your headphones. Get into your music when everyone else is asleep. Ditto for books.
    About dancing the night away, that ain’t happening except on special occasions, like an anniversary. Your feet will ache, and you'll want to sit more than shake your tailfeather.
    And sorry, Fe-Fe; there will be no more skydiving. Once was enough. You've got too much to lose now.

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