the most self-obsessed post ever

In the interest of retaining my sanity, I have learned that it's just best (for me, anyway) to not look back too often. I find it difficult to look back on good times with more fondness than envy, even though I know that I would not trade the present for the past, and I am grateful and happy for where I am.
Ok. Too abstract and poetic? Fine.
My daughter is fascinated with her birth. She has become quite the diverse little individual, wearing my shoes and jewelry around the house (girly mode), playing "mommy" to any number of stuffed animals, inanimate objects, and of course, baby dolls (maternal mode), shunning all clothing for days on end (exhibitionist) and feeding cattle with an uncle, completely oblivious to the mud, flies, stink, and the hairy eyeball that only cows can give(tomboy mode). So lately, the maternal mode has been pulling double shifts and she wants to know all about how she got here. So I tell her about how she used to get hiccups in my tummy, and how she kicked and danced, and how she didn't want to come out but she was getting to big so she had to anyway. We talk about how she hated her first bath, liked having her hair washed, and then (her favorite part) how I held her and she looked up at me. As a result of all this talk, she obviously wants to see pictures of herself during that time. She's seen the ultrasound and the hospital pictures (so tiny! so red!) and all the pictures chronicling her evolution into this absolutely fantastic little person she is today. The thing is, I can't remember about half of it. Literally. She'll be three in about 12 days, and I can't remember approximately 18 months of her life.
I dislike looking back at my daughter's early days (months? years? whatever.) because I feel wretched that I was so miserable to have this beautiful girl. (due to PPD; she hadn't done anything to offend me, like vote republican or anything.) And as for looking back on my life before LPT, I just feel sad because I know I was so much different then, and I think maybe I liked myself a bit more.
Lastly, we have relationships. Looking back on silly, youthful (read: completely retarded) relationships is somewhat fun, because I can laugh about it (especially with a couple of friends and an adult beverage. or two.) but then there are those periods of time (or just those people) who will always make you pause. And I'm not talking about specific persons here, because I know for a fact that everyone has them. But it's somehow so much more bitter than sweet when I stumble upon that box when looking for something in the basement, the one with all the letters and photos associated with every boy (or girl, as the case may be) who really made your heart flutter and who didn't completely piss you off when it was over. Somehow, looking at all that stuff just makes me ache a little more. [Truthfully (since I know you won't tell anyone, right?) a part of me wants to be reassured that I'm somewhere in a box of stuff that will cause similar reaction(s). The negative part isn't necessary; I'd settle for the "look back with fondness..." blah blah blah.] It's the whole "What if?" path, a completely pointless trail that usually results in heavy drinking if you take it too far for too long.
And this is not to imply that I am unhappy, or that things totally suck at the house with the blue door. I just had an encounter that sent me, unarmed and unprepared, down memory lane. Tell me someone else has been there. And has wanted to leave upon arrival.