I finally took out my belly button ring yesterday. I figured with the amount of crap I planned to eat during the Superbowl I was in serious danger of popping it out right through my skin. And a trip to the emergency room might interrupt my busy pants-busting schedule. Nothing gets between me and my 7-layer dip.

Taking out my belly ring actually makes me really sad. I’ve had it for almost 8 years. Getting it was my first big act of rebellion against my parents and a physical reminder of a super fun weekend with my friend Erin. It’s like officially recognizing I will never be 19 again. You would think that moment in my life might have come much sooner on a more momentous occasion. 21st birthday? Alcohol poisoning doesn’t really make you feel very grown up. Getting engaged? I was too excited to remember my own name let alone my age. College graduation? A trained monkey would have no problem completing my degree, and probably with a better GPA. Since getting married I’ve done a lot of very grown up things – getting a mortgage and car insurance my parents don’t pay for were big ones – but I still haven’t felt as old as I did when I took out that ring.

I know having a baby isn’t necessarily a grown up thing to do. God knows plenty of people procreate without any plans to be responsible. But giving up that little piece of my teenage self is my first tiny act of sacrifice in what I know will be a long line of putting this baby’s needs and wants before my own. But right now baby wants a piece of the chocolate peanut butter cake one of our friends brought over last night, and that is one need I am more than happy to meet.