I love this:
Owen was with his grandparents for two days. When they drop him off, he runs past me, past Paul, straight to Joel. He says, "Baby Joel-Joels. I missed you!" He then does his routine of tossing Joel around like a chew toy. I would be more alarmed if Joel wasn't grinning from ear to ear.
This is the beginning of Us. vs. Them, and I'm okay with it. The whole point of having a sibling is knowing that there is another person who understands the absurdity of the parents. Only a brother or sister can, with a rolled eye or chuckle, boil down the parent-child relationship to its core. Only a brother or sister can say, "See, this, this is why we're crazy."
Someday, I can see Owen and Joel in the backseat, as we drive to some National Park for a family vacation, mocking our words, our music, our clothing, and our very existence. Yes, they will bicker, but they will have a common enemy: Mom and Dad.
Don't get me wrong: I think that they will like us. What's not to like? However, I remember turning in my Cool Membership Card when I checked out of the hospital (as do all parents), and I fully expect that I will embarrass both of my boys, sooner if not later.
It will be so humiliating, having Mom pull up to the middle school, blasting Beck and talking about books and nature and, God Forbid, Klingon Names. "Kill me now," the boys will think, if not shout to the heavens.
That's okay, though. Owen and Joel will not have to do it alone. They have each other, partners in mocking, in derision, and occasionally, hopefully, in love.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Literary Autobiography, Part I
People who know me know that I am a reader. I'll read almost anything---cookbooks, "chick-lit," classics, memoir, non-fiction. A lot of what I read goes in one ear and out the other. It's like eating a salad for lunch---good at the time, but I'm hungry two hours later.
Luckily, there have been books that satisfy, that sate the appetite like a four-course meal. These are the books I push on others with an urgency..."You must read this book." I think these books were placed in my hands at just the right time for just the right reasons. A literary perfect storm, if you will (not to mix my metaphors or anything...)
Anne of Green Gables, hit my world in seventh grade. I can't imagine why an awkward, bookish, smart heroine would appeal to me! Anne Shirley was my "kindred spirit" when I was twelve and I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Someday, I'll travel to Prince Edward Island and fight all the Japanese tourists to see the land described so beautifully in the books.
Oh, and the name "Nancy" is a derivative of "Anne." See, I knew we were kindred spirits!
To Kill A Mockingbird, thankfully, was a book that I discovered on my own, instead of in the classroom. I read it the summer of my junior year. I was never forced to deconstruct it or analyze the characters. I could just sink into the world of Atticus, Boo Radley, Scout, and Dill on my own terms. The last line of the book, "[Atticus] would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning” is hopeful to me. Although the world is spinning and nothing is as safe and easy as it once was, Jem could depend on his father to be there, to be present. Likewise, this book reaffirmed the power of my own dad to be there, to be present---right when I needed it the most, that is, right before I began the process of applying to colleges.
Paul said, "No son of ours will be named Atticus." So, I declare it here that the next Campbell dog will be Atticus.
A Prayer for Owen Meany was a book selected by a teacher-friend of mine for a student book club. This book is one of the few that makes me cry. Although John Irving wastes a lot of print rambling on about the Iran-Contra Affair, the rest of the book is transcendent. I was floating around with my faith at this point in my life, and this book reminded me that God has a plan, and it unravels in ways we could never suspect.
Yes, Owen Campbell is named after Owen Meany.
Romeo and Juliet humbles me. I was lucky enough to teach this play to seventh graders for several years. The story can be silly, but the poetry is sublime. The sonnet between Romeo and Juliet when they meet and kiss for the first time gives me chills. Just listen to this:
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
In one beautiful sonnet, Shakespeare shows how smart Juliet can be---she basically manipulates Romeo into kissing her. She's so clever---and the fact that Shakespeare wrote such compelling female characters in the Elizabethan era is astonishing. This is the same time that people were dealing with the plague. The plague, people! I mean, really.
If Owen was a girl, we would have named him Julia (because Juliet is a bit much to carry around every day). See a trend here?
One more, and then I'll pick up this idea another day:
Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott (another Anne!) is a book about writing. I encountered it when I did the Southern Arizona Writing Project (a graduate class on writing and the teaching of writing) in 2000. She tells a story about her younger brother, who was struggling to write a report about birds. He was getting wound up about the enormity of the project. She describes how her father sat down next to her brother and said, "Just do it bird by bird, buddy." Eventually, he got it done.
This has stayed with me. When I get too caught up in my lists and to-dos, I find myself thinking, "Just do it bird by bird. It will get done." I can't say that this magically calms me down, but it's a good mantra to repeat. Someday it might stick.
And no, nobody in our household will be named "Bird." That is, unless we get a bird. Which isn't going to happen.
To be continued another time...
Luckily, there have been books that satisfy, that sate the appetite like a four-course meal. These are the books I push on others with an urgency..."You must read this book." I think these books were placed in my hands at just the right time for just the right reasons. A literary perfect storm, if you will (not to mix my metaphors or anything...)
Anne of Green Gables, hit my world in seventh grade. I can't imagine why an awkward, bookish, smart heroine would appeal to me! Anne Shirley was my "kindred spirit" when I was twelve and I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Someday, I'll travel to Prince Edward Island and fight all the Japanese tourists to see the land described so beautifully in the books.
Oh, and the name "Nancy" is a derivative of "Anne." See, I knew we were kindred spirits!
To Kill A Mockingbird, thankfully, was a book that I discovered on my own, instead of in the classroom. I read it the summer of my junior year. I was never forced to deconstruct it or analyze the characters. I could just sink into the world of Atticus, Boo Radley, Scout, and Dill on my own terms. The last line of the book, "[Atticus] would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning” is hopeful to me. Although the world is spinning and nothing is as safe and easy as it once was, Jem could depend on his father to be there, to be present. Likewise, this book reaffirmed the power of my own dad to be there, to be present---right when I needed it the most, that is, right before I began the process of applying to colleges.
Paul said, "No son of ours will be named Atticus." So, I declare it here that the next Campbell dog will be Atticus.
A Prayer for Owen Meany was a book selected by a teacher-friend of mine for a student book club. This book is one of the few that makes me cry. Although John Irving wastes a lot of print rambling on about the Iran-Contra Affair, the rest of the book is transcendent. I was floating around with my faith at this point in my life, and this book reminded me that God has a plan, and it unravels in ways we could never suspect.
Yes, Owen Campbell is named after Owen Meany.
Romeo and Juliet humbles me. I was lucky enough to teach this play to seventh graders for several years. The story can be silly, but the poetry is sublime. The sonnet between Romeo and Juliet when they meet and kiss for the first time gives me chills. Just listen to this:
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
In one beautiful sonnet, Shakespeare shows how smart Juliet can be---she basically manipulates Romeo into kissing her. She's so clever---and the fact that Shakespeare wrote such compelling female characters in the Elizabethan era is astonishing. This is the same time that people were dealing with the plague. The plague, people! I mean, really.
If Owen was a girl, we would have named him Julia (because Juliet is a bit much to carry around every day). See a trend here?
One more, and then I'll pick up this idea another day:
Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott (another Anne!) is a book about writing. I encountered it when I did the Southern Arizona Writing Project (a graduate class on writing and the teaching of writing) in 2000. She tells a story about her younger brother, who was struggling to write a report about birds. He was getting wound up about the enormity of the project. She describes how her father sat down next to her brother and said, "Just do it bird by bird, buddy." Eventually, he got it done.
This has stayed with me. When I get too caught up in my lists and to-dos, I find myself thinking, "Just do it bird by bird. It will get done." I can't say that this magically calms me down, but it's a good mantra to repeat. Someday it might stick.
And no, nobody in our household will be named "Bird." That is, unless we get a bird. Which isn't going to happen.
To be continued another time...
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Facing the book (and bonus! Klingon Names)
Yo, yo, yo. Yick-Nan* is in the hizzy. The baby is sleeping, the other boy is spending quality time with his grandparents, and the coffee is hot and good. How you like me now???
I've been swimming in a sea of nostalgia, thanks to Facebook. Facebook turned five years old this week, and the guy who created it is a gazillionare. I have to accept the fact that people born in the eighties are adults now, too. It's entirely possible to be born during the Reagan Administration AND be successful. My brother-in-law would argue that they are successful BECAUSE of the Reagan "Revolution," as he insists on calling it. I'm choosing not to argue this point, because the point I am trying to make is this: the 24-year old Facebook Gazillionare, Mark Zuckerberg, deserves every penny. Facebook is rad.
It all started innocently enough. Brother Tom opened an account with pictures of his band. I got an account just to look at his pictures. This was back in April. I basically ignored my page until August. Joel had been at Hopkins, and the computer was my lifeline. Each day, after spending time with Owen and my parents (after seeing Joel at the hospital), I would go to the computer to read the emails (well-wishes and prayers) and to update interested parties regarding Joel's progress. It saved me, partially because I wrote to make sense of it all.
Joel got better, and one day, I opened up my Facebook page and wrote, "My younger son is eleven days old." Then, I started friending people. Then, I started doing a daily status updates. You know where this is heading, because it's the same story for most people. I became addicted.
Now, I check my page at least three times a day. Thanks to a click of the mouse, I've reconnected with my entire past. It's a party where all the groups meet and mingle, but without the awkwardness. Youth group friends chit-chat with friends from Tucson. College friends and playgroup friends seamlessly blend together into the category of "my peeps."
Last night, instead of sleeping, I talked to two of my old roommates from NAU, and we were the exact same people---just a little wiser, and more prone to talking about "the good ol' days." It was an intimacy that doesn't translate as well in occasional phone calls or annual Christmas newsletters.
Just like that, we're close friends again. So, thank you Mark Zuckerberg, you rich Harvard dropout, for expanding my world and bringing my friends back.
Even though you're just a young whippersnapper.
*Yick-Nan is my Klingon name. Yes, I determined my Kingon name my freshman year of college. It was a late night. Wanna play? Say your name backwards. For example, my sons' Klingon Names are Ne-wo and Le-oj. Those actually sound like Ewok names, but, if said in a gruff Klingon voice, they are quite menacing. OK, my dork card is FULL for this post.
I've been swimming in a sea of nostalgia, thanks to Facebook. Facebook turned five years old this week, and the guy who created it is a gazillionare. I have to accept the fact that people born in the eighties are adults now, too. It's entirely possible to be born during the Reagan Administration AND be successful. My brother-in-law would argue that they are successful BECAUSE of the Reagan "Revolution," as he insists on calling it. I'm choosing not to argue this point, because the point I am trying to make is this: the 24-year old Facebook Gazillionare, Mark Zuckerberg, deserves every penny. Facebook is rad.
It all started innocently enough. Brother Tom opened an account with pictures of his band. I got an account just to look at his pictures. This was back in April. I basically ignored my page until August. Joel had been at Hopkins, and the computer was my lifeline. Each day, after spending time with Owen and my parents (after seeing Joel at the hospital), I would go to the computer to read the emails (well-wishes and prayers) and to update interested parties regarding Joel's progress. It saved me, partially because I wrote to make sense of it all.
Joel got better, and one day, I opened up my Facebook page and wrote, "My younger son is eleven days old." Then, I started friending people. Then, I started doing a daily status updates. You know where this is heading, because it's the same story for most people. I became addicted.
Now, I check my page at least three times a day. Thanks to a click of the mouse, I've reconnected with my entire past. It's a party where all the groups meet and mingle, but without the awkwardness. Youth group friends chit-chat with friends from Tucson. College friends and playgroup friends seamlessly blend together into the category of "my peeps."
Last night, instead of sleeping, I talked to two of my old roommates from NAU, and we were the exact same people---just a little wiser, and more prone to talking about "the good ol' days." It was an intimacy that doesn't translate as well in occasional phone calls or annual Christmas newsletters.
Just like that, we're close friends again. So, thank you Mark Zuckerberg, you rich Harvard dropout, for expanding my world and bringing my friends back.
Even though you're just a young whippersnapper.
*Yick-Nan is my Klingon name. Yes, I determined my Kingon name my freshman year of college. It was a late night. Wanna play? Say your name backwards. For example, my sons' Klingon Names are Ne-wo and Le-oj. Those actually sound like Ewok names, but, if said in a gruff Klingon voice, they are quite menacing. OK, my dork card is FULL for this post.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Unforgiveness
I've started this Bible study with some friends. I'm not sure how much I enjoy this study, because it is challenging me, and I prefer to remain complacent and lazy.
The study is asking me to ask God to reveal areas of "unforgiveness"---meaning, areas that I am holding on to anger or ways that I am not letting go of past hurts. It states, accurately, that when you stay angry, you are denying yourself and others the fullness of joy that God wishes for you. In other words, unforgiveness binds you, as keenly as rope. I think of Marley's ghost in A Christmas Carol---the inability to forgive weighs on a person, like the heavy chains Marley carried throughout eternity.
I have been lucky in life, and I do not have the serious hurts that others do. I was never abused, and my childhood was mostly joyful. However, I know that I can hold a grudge. So, here are a few of the things I'm going to release (and I'm really going to work on not grabbing them back):
1. When I was six years old, Bea Hendricks told me to get out of the church kitchen because I was in the way. She made me cry, and I thought she was such a mean old lady. I really gotta let it go.
2. Gretchen Preuss told me, when I was eight, that my belly looked ugly and that I needed to stop eating so much junk food. I cannot blame her for my body issues anymore.
3. In fifth grade, Erika Martin up and decided that she would not be my friend anymore. Just like that. She stopped talking to me, turned her chair away when I attempted to sit with her at her lunch table, and told Christine that I had bad breath. Then, one day, she decided that we should be friends again. I still don't know why. I need to not use her as an excuse to push female friendships away. I also need to forgive myself for being needy enough to accept her friendship without question.
4. I need to forgive every single person who I encountered or who encountered me when I was in middle school.
5. In high school, my best friend at the time fell in love. She spent less time with me. At the time, I felt alone. I now realize that she was looking for something or someone to hold on to after her mother died. I was too short-sighted to see it. It still stings. Again, I cannot allow this action to shape the way I view female friendship.
6. In college, I need to forgive myself for being needy. I don't want to write about the details. Maybe someday, when I'm feeling braver.
7. I forgive any student that ever looked at me cross-eyed. I'm a better teacher for it, even though it led to brief homicidal thoughts at the time.
8. As a parent, I must forgive myself for never doing enough, being enough, loving enough, trying hard enough. I need to stop trying, and start leaning on God.
Wow....this post has been a therapy session. Don't worry---I'll write about spit up, poo, or some other bodily function tomorrow.
However, if you've read this, you are my witnesses: I am going to release this unforgiveness from my heart, and throw off all that does not serve me, and all that does not serve my God.
The study is asking me to ask God to reveal areas of "unforgiveness"---meaning, areas that I am holding on to anger or ways that I am not letting go of past hurts. It states, accurately, that when you stay angry, you are denying yourself and others the fullness of joy that God wishes for you. In other words, unforgiveness binds you, as keenly as rope. I think of Marley's ghost in A Christmas Carol---the inability to forgive weighs on a person, like the heavy chains Marley carried throughout eternity.
I have been lucky in life, and I do not have the serious hurts that others do. I was never abused, and my childhood was mostly joyful. However, I know that I can hold a grudge. So, here are a few of the things I'm going to release (and I'm really going to work on not grabbing them back):
1. When I was six years old, Bea Hendricks told me to get out of the church kitchen because I was in the way. She made me cry, and I thought she was such a mean old lady. I really gotta let it go.
2. Gretchen Preuss told me, when I was eight, that my belly looked ugly and that I needed to stop eating so much junk food. I cannot blame her for my body issues anymore.
3. In fifth grade, Erika Martin up and decided that she would not be my friend anymore. Just like that. She stopped talking to me, turned her chair away when I attempted to sit with her at her lunch table, and told Christine that I had bad breath. Then, one day, she decided that we should be friends again. I still don't know why. I need to not use her as an excuse to push female friendships away. I also need to forgive myself for being needy enough to accept her friendship without question.
4. I need to forgive every single person who I encountered or who encountered me when I was in middle school.
5. In high school, my best friend at the time fell in love. She spent less time with me. At the time, I felt alone. I now realize that she was looking for something or someone to hold on to after her mother died. I was too short-sighted to see it. It still stings. Again, I cannot allow this action to shape the way I view female friendship.
6. In college, I need to forgive myself for being needy. I don't want to write about the details. Maybe someday, when I'm feeling braver.
7. I forgive any student that ever looked at me cross-eyed. I'm a better teacher for it, even though it led to brief homicidal thoughts at the time.
8. As a parent, I must forgive myself for never doing enough, being enough, loving enough, trying hard enough. I need to stop trying, and start leaning on God.
Wow....this post has been a therapy session. Don't worry---I'll write about spit up, poo, or some other bodily function tomorrow.
However, if you've read this, you are my witnesses: I am going to release this unforgiveness from my heart, and throw off all that does not serve me, and all that does not serve my God.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
PPB--Poo, Pantyliners, and Babysitters
Here's a taste of the kind of day I've had:
Joel was sitting in his high chair, finishing up his delicious breakfast of carrots and bananas. He was making these grunting noises that can mean only one thing: he was working on something. If his noises weren't enough, the telltale purple vein on his forehead was a dead giveaway. It never fails to surprise me. When he's making such a commotion, I'm convinced that he will have a Coke Can in his diaper. Instead, after all that noise, it's always a mere nugget.
Meanwhile, as Joel grunted away, Owen was getting into things he shouldn't. So, out of character, yes? Today, he toddled out of the bathroom, brandishing a panty liner, asking, "Hello? What is that? Mommy, what is that?"
I closed my eyes and willed it all to go away. When I opened my eyes, the baby will still in mid-shit, and Owen had determined the panty liner to be a band-aid, and was wrapping it around his wrist.
Serenity Now.
In other news, I've come to realize that Paul and I need to start Date Night, or things could get seriously ugly. With one child, we were able to do fun things together, pawning Owen off on grandparents or other family members every few months. With two, things are different. Paul comes home and one or both of us is working with a boy until bedtime. When the kids are asleep, Paul and I head our separate ways to decompress. We both need our alone time---to read, go online, watch TV, putter. If we don't have it, we get testy.
Consequently, there aren't enough hours in the day for us. So, need finally overcame stinginess, and I called a reliable teenager. The average babysitter pulls down more money per hour than I did my first year teaching, but it's still worth it. Paul and I need to reconnect, and not just three to four times a year, when family's in town. It's too important. Besides, I miss him.
Joel was sitting in his high chair, finishing up his delicious breakfast of carrots and bananas. He was making these grunting noises that can mean only one thing: he was working on something. If his noises weren't enough, the telltale purple vein on his forehead was a dead giveaway. It never fails to surprise me. When he's making such a commotion, I'm convinced that he will have a Coke Can in his diaper. Instead, after all that noise, it's always a mere nugget.
Meanwhile, as Joel grunted away, Owen was getting into things he shouldn't. So, out of character, yes? Today, he toddled out of the bathroom, brandishing a panty liner, asking, "Hello? What is that? Mommy, what is that?"
I closed my eyes and willed it all to go away. When I opened my eyes, the baby will still in mid-shit, and Owen had determined the panty liner to be a band-aid, and was wrapping it around his wrist.
Serenity Now.
In other news, I've come to realize that Paul and I need to start Date Night, or things could get seriously ugly. With one child, we were able to do fun things together, pawning Owen off on grandparents or other family members every few months. With two, things are different. Paul comes home and one or both of us is working with a boy until bedtime. When the kids are asleep, Paul and I head our separate ways to decompress. We both need our alone time---to read, go online, watch TV, putter. If we don't have it, we get testy.
Consequently, there aren't enough hours in the day for us. So, need finally overcame stinginess, and I called a reliable teenager. The average babysitter pulls down more money per hour than I did my first year teaching, but it's still worth it. Paul and I need to reconnect, and not just three to four times a year, when family's in town. It's too important. Besides, I miss him.
Monday, February 2, 2009
It's All in a Name
I was driving Owen and Joel to the playground today, and I hear my firstborn say out loud, "Sharing is NOT my middle name!" He certainly hit that one on the head.
For quite some time, I was secretly smug about Owen and sharing. He was very good about it. If another child snatched a toy out of his hands, he would shrug and find something else to play with. Parents would apologize for their son or daughter's behavior, and I would say, "It's no big deal, really." And it wasn't.
All has changed. Owen now paces around his toys, snarling. Any child that enters our home enters a gladiator arena. Two toddlers enter; only one leaves. I have to be vigilant, watchful. I just don't know when my child is going to ruthlessly rip a toy from an unsuspecting friend's hands. So far, this behavior has not erupted into fisticuffs. So far.
In Owen's world, everything is his. As we were leaving the park, we were parked next to a friend, who was also leaving. Owen tells Gavin, "This is my car seat, and you better not get in it." Gavin looks at Owen like he's certifiable. Why would he want to sit in Owen's car seat? On this same trip to the playground, Owen told me that Miss Joanne was welcome to play with him at the park, but her son, Zachary, better stay away from his slide.
I am really struggling with this. I know it will get better, and I know that it's my job to teach him how to share. But it's just difficult to see your sweet-natured boy pacing the perimeter of a playground like a rabid pit bull.
Owen's real middle name is Kenneth, which means "born of fire." That kind of makes sense. Fires often start as small embers, grow into flames, then become ashes and dust. I just have to trust that the Not Sharing phase is in its inferno phase, and that someday, his need to hoard his toys will fade away, scattering like ashes in the wind.
If that doesn't happen, we'll just legally change his name to Owen Sharing Campbell. Take that!
For quite some time, I was secretly smug about Owen and sharing. He was very good about it. If another child snatched a toy out of his hands, he would shrug and find something else to play with. Parents would apologize for their son or daughter's behavior, and I would say, "It's no big deal, really." And it wasn't.
All has changed. Owen now paces around his toys, snarling. Any child that enters our home enters a gladiator arena. Two toddlers enter; only one leaves. I have to be vigilant, watchful. I just don't know when my child is going to ruthlessly rip a toy from an unsuspecting friend's hands. So far, this behavior has not erupted into fisticuffs. So far.
In Owen's world, everything is his. As we were leaving the park, we were parked next to a friend, who was also leaving. Owen tells Gavin, "This is my car seat, and you better not get in it." Gavin looks at Owen like he's certifiable. Why would he want to sit in Owen's car seat? On this same trip to the playground, Owen told me that Miss Joanne was welcome to play with him at the park, but her son, Zachary, better stay away from his slide.
I am really struggling with this. I know it will get better, and I know that it's my job to teach him how to share. But it's just difficult to see your sweet-natured boy pacing the perimeter of a playground like a rabid pit bull.
Owen's real middle name is Kenneth, which means "born of fire." That kind of makes sense. Fires often start as small embers, grow into flames, then become ashes and dust. I just have to trust that the Not Sharing phase is in its inferno phase, and that someday, his need to hoard his toys will fade away, scattering like ashes in the wind.
If that doesn't happen, we'll just legally change his name to Owen Sharing Campbell. Take that!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ocean City
I spent the weekend in Ocean City with some girlfriends. This weekend was designed to be a respite, a break from the constant demands on our time, our bodies, our energy, our spirits.
I guess it goes without saying that all of these girlfriends are mothers of at least two children.
You would think that five women without children or husbands in tow would be carefree and wild, ready to let loose and party down. You would be thinking wrong. We drank wine, ate Pringles, slept, took walks, told stories, and read trashy magazines. All. Weekend. Long.
In fact, to truly drive home the point, let me confess this: I brought along Joel, and another friend brought her four-month-old daughter. We were the wild and crazy group of five exhausted mothers...and two babies.
If my pre-child self was reading this, I would immediately call my OB and double my birth control prescription. Before the boys, my travel needed to be purposeful and things needed to be seen and done. Spending the entire weekend in a condo, sharing stories and lounging, would make me want to crawl out of my skin.
Now, though, I welcome the chance to talk to other women, to learn where they've been, and where they are now. This sounds very Lillith Fair, but learning how other women navigate the shared experiences of womanhood---friendships, family, love, death, birth, parenting, and the ever-present need to do it all and take care of it all---helps me. Being a woman is a song as old as eternity---and with each story shared, each nodded head, each knowing laugh---the song becomes more complex and beautiful.
I'm grateful for my Pringles, the quiet moments to linger with the ladies, the opportunity to watch Joel explore his feet and his world. The waves crashed against the shore, the wind blew, but for a weekend, in a condo in Ocean City, we were at peace.
I guess it goes without saying that all of these girlfriends are mothers of at least two children.
You would think that five women without children or husbands in tow would be carefree and wild, ready to let loose and party down. You would be thinking wrong. We drank wine, ate Pringles, slept, took walks, told stories, and read trashy magazines. All. Weekend. Long.
In fact, to truly drive home the point, let me confess this: I brought along Joel, and another friend brought her four-month-old daughter. We were the wild and crazy group of five exhausted mothers...and two babies.
If my pre-child self was reading this, I would immediately call my OB and double my birth control prescription. Before the boys, my travel needed to be purposeful and things needed to be seen and done. Spending the entire weekend in a condo, sharing stories and lounging, would make me want to crawl out of my skin.
Now, though, I welcome the chance to talk to other women, to learn where they've been, and where they are now. This sounds very Lillith Fair, but learning how other women navigate the shared experiences of womanhood---friendships, family, love, death, birth, parenting, and the ever-present need to do it all and take care of it all---helps me. Being a woman is a song as old as eternity---and with each story shared, each nodded head, each knowing laugh---the song becomes more complex and beautiful.
I'm grateful for my Pringles, the quiet moments to linger with the ladies, the opportunity to watch Joel explore his feet and his world. The waves crashed against the shore, the wind blew, but for a weekend, in a condo in Ocean City, we were at peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)