Def Leppard.

One of my strongest, and maybe favorite, memories from my childhood was my mom's music in the car. She was big into the 80's hair bands, and being the late 80's and early 90's, they were still remotely relevant. I could differentiate between Def Leppard, Poison, and White Snake by three, and could sing along to everything from "Once Bitten Twice Shy" to "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" before I was in kindergarten. I still remember the different album covers, as they appeared on the cassette tape cases. My mom would pop in a cassette tape, and we'd sing along happily to the bands that were clearly evidence of her youth.

While I really enjoyed this memory, it wasn't something I necessarily thought of until recently, when I was cruising through traffic with the windows down, blasting Rage Against the Machine (one of my all-time favorite bands) and caught Punky sitting in the backseat, bopping her head along to the music and giggling as I rapped along with Zack de la Roca and air-guitaring along with Tom Morello (one of the best guitarists in the history of rock, IMHO).

I listened to Rage long before Punk -- and driving while blasting it entirely too loud takes me back to a place before Punk, before marriage and Stepford Wifery and my achingly boring, mundane life. Back when I was ME, before How2 and before Mommy. And that's when it struck me: my mom was B. before she was Mom.

While brief, I had an entire lifetime before I became a mother. Like a past life, I was a totally different person; one that sometimes I miss being, one that sometimes I'm glad I've shed. And while Punk can dance and enjoy the music of my past life, she'll probably never know the stories behind it.

She'll never know that before it was just driving music, I sat and debated politics with friends in dorm rooms while "Battle of Los Angeles" blared in the background.

She'll never know that before I danced around the living room with her to The Wiggles, I danced on bars.

She'll never know that before I stayed up late with her when she was colicky, I stayed up late in coffee houses with good friends, talking and laughing about current events, politics, sports, and life.

She'll never know that before I let her draw on me with washable markers, I had two tattoos done to symbolize two different yet significant parts of my life.

She'll never know the life and career I gave up, and the pain I still feel for doing so.

Before sippy cups of apple juice, there were flasks of whiskey.

Before unconditional love for my child, there was the agony of loving someone I couldn't have.

Before I stayed up late, covered in baby vomit and weathering the flu, I stayed up holding back friends' hair while they prayed loudly, and with regurgitated Jager bombs, to the porcelain gods.

She will never know the complete detour that her very existence caused me to quickly and begrudgingly take, or the fact that she quite possibly saved me from myself -- or that I will forever be grateful to her for it.