I suck at putting myself first. Or second. Or fifty-second, for that matter. Is this a mom thing? Or just me. As I lay on the table at my physical therapy appointment on Wednesday, the therapist attacking my leg (technically, my iliotibial band, which I still haven’t actually located anatomically yet) with what looks like a bumpy rolling-pin stick of evil, commenting on how this really is one of their more torturous tasks – which I would wholeheartedly agree with if I could get my gritted teeth to separate, instead grunting in agreement – and I had to ask myself: “How did it come to this?” From my twenties to mid-thirties, I…