Then and Now

Then: Tired was when I fell asleep at church
Now: Tired is not being able to sit down for even 5 minutes before having to get up again, and again, and again.

Then: Holding a baby was something I did because it was culturally expected of me; If I didn't hold it, the parents would think I didn't like their baby or had some deep-seeded anti-social feelings.
Now: Nothing beats holding my newborn and letting her fall asleep on my expansive baby-holder.

Then: I saw breastmilk a few times, like when my mom was feeding my little sister or something.
Now: I feel like I'm the proprietor of a dairy farm operation.

Then: I drove "safe and aggressive."
Now: I'm the 85 year old guy who never got the memo about the 55mph speed limit being abolished. Every speed bump is negotiated below 10 mph, every turn taken with apprehension.

Then: The Pump was a basketball shoe, and I had to make sure I pumped them on the basketball court, so everyone could see how ridiculously cool I was with my Reebok Pumps. I would point my toes so the people across the way could clearly see the round plastic little basketball on the toungue. "Nuke (my nickname) has got Pumps now, daaang." Then, I would depress 20 times, my customized pressure amount, because I knew it would make me jump faster, higher.
Now: The pump is a device in my bedroom, utilizing suction for a completely different purpose, with completely different results; oh, and I don't bring the pump to a basketball game or necessarily want people to see it while its in operation. You get the idea.

Then: I worried about what are baby would look like, because sometimes the international mixed-race couples procreation thing is like when you were a kid trick or treating, and the lady had a bag of assorted candy, most of it the hard and cheap stuff, you know, cinnamon disks, those gross fruit-shaped jelly filled abominations, and everything but the butterscotches, because the kids who came earlier picked those clean. But now, the lady throws in some high-quality snickers bars, almond joys, kit-kats, butterfingers, and other candies considered premium by young costumed sugarfreaks looking for a fix. Then, the lady decides to make it interesting by having you reach into the brown paper bag and grab; maybe you get a nice candy bar, maybe you are stuck with smarties, tootsie rolls, or a Halls cough drop.
Now: Well, Rayley is all of the candy bars, and a bag of chips.