When did I stop being a girl?

"You're not a girl! You're a mom!"
Those words, uttered by my heathen offspring, made me stop to wonder.
When did I stop being a girl?
I remember being a girl. I'm pretty sure I had the passport and knew the secret handshake.
So when did I turn in my papers and join the "Mom's Only" club? Which, I must admit, is universally detested by my offspring, just like brussell sprouts and broccoli.
I look at Punk and wonder, will she too pass from the Girl Club to the Mom Club?
And will I be able to see in her what I missed in myself?
That elusive moment when she ceases to be a girl and becomes a mom?
I'm convinced it was one of the countless forms I signed in the hospital.
Something that read:
"By hereby squeezing an infant the size a watermelon out of your previously intact nether regions or by laying sprawled on an operating table having your previously perfect bikini line irreparably marred, you do hereby acknowledge that you are no longer a girl, can never again be a girl. You accept that your boobs will sagged, your stretch marks will be a permanent road map to your pregnancies, and that the bags under your eyes will only take you to the nursery at 3am, not to any exotic locale.
Furthermore, you understand that your sex drive will drop to nothing, especially when its a choice between that and sleep. You will arrive everywhere rear first to insure your child does not fall out of the car. You will have conversations that involve never meeting anyone's eye because you will be constantly watching your child. You will also become the queen of interruptions as you yell at Little Billy or Betty to stop sticking something up their nose.
By signing this, you hereby sever all ties allegiances, and future dealings with the group known as girlhood.
Kiss your cooch, and your freedom, goodbye."
Or something like that.
So I'm no longer a girl by anyone definition. I'm just a mom, usually said with derision, irritation, whining, and a touch of disgust.