In front of me in line at the grocery store: Shortish bald guy, short beard, jeans, flip flops. Oh, I love flip flops. His red t-shirt bears the name of a band I’ve never heard of. Was it the Floating Watermelons? Whatever. He’s friendly, chatting with the checkout girl. Something about him says Irish to me. Cute.
Following
She made her way ahead of me on the path, leading the dog on her leash, in her quiet way. Earlier in the day she had been angry and still tired from a bad night’s rest. Now, settled, she wandered among the scrub and flowers pulling the lazy dog down the grassy path. She stops to watch the hawks circling overhead. She, like me, was being herself, a beautiful, messy-haired seven-year old.
Before I became a mom, I thought that I would want to teach my daughter everything that I know. I mistakenly believed that I needed to learn a certain amount before I would be able to raise her the right way, as if there is even a right way to be a mom. Now that motherhood is my reality, I find myself wanting more to just stand back and watch to see what she becomes.
Fences
From my walk yesterday.
 
    
How to be a sexy mom
I know that I just gave you a confession, but I have something else to admit. I like to let a little bit of my bra show. Sometimes I choose a shade darker than my shirt, or a pattern that peeks through the fabric. Sometimes the lacy edge peeks out from my neckline. It just makes me feel a little bit racy, a little bad, if you know what I mean. Now, you know I’m a mom. Most of the time I am dragging three kids around, from here to there, to school, to piano lessons, to swimming. I often have my one-year old on my arm. More often than not, my hands are sticky from someone’s snack. And that feeling can be annihilating.
But when I know that I caught Geoff’s eye on his way out the door to work, or I feel a guy’s eyes on me (I know, I should be ashamed, I’m married!) I feel a little more alive, a little more me. It helps me get through these mommy years in one piece. It reminds me that being a sexy girl was what got me into this mess in the first place, and that I will one day return to what I was—more or less—a sexy woman with nice clean hands.
Do other moms do this? I definitely haven’t noticed any bits of lace peeking out. But I say go for it! Moms, do your hair and wear your date night shoes on regular days too. Go shopping, alone, for yourself. It feels great.
I do have one friend who tried my advice. She religiously wears sweats. Recently she confided that she did some lingerie shopping, and that she’s been wearing her sexy bras and panties under her sweats. Her husband loves it, and I hear she’s been reaping the benefits.
So, guys, when you see us moms, in our sweats, hair in ponytails, tugging flocks of kids along by the arms, well, you ought to look more closely. Things are not always as they appear. Sometimes, they are a lot more interesting.
Pawn shops and positivity
I never met my dad. Have I mentioned that? I can’t remember. He and my mom had a fling, as far as I can tell from her piecemeal stories. They worked together in a pawn shop. Yeah, awesome, I know. I have no idea how long it lasted, only that there was a night with steak and eggs, an emerald ring, and sex.
My dad had two children before me. He was a drinker. His son, age three, was the victim of tragedy. My dad, drunk, backed his car into him. My dad never forgave himself, never got over the loss.
Years later, still long before that fateful night with my mom, his daughter was thrown from a horse and killed. That closed the chapter on parenthood for my dad. Still long before my conception. So, you see, any hope that I had of a relationship with my dad was doomed before I was even an embryo.
Flash forward–I’m seven years old. Like all seven-year olds, I’m a writer. I write letters to friends, to neighbors, to my dad. I wish I had that letter; I would post it here. I asked. Please meet me. I want to meet you.
No answer. Not even a note in reply. How could my seven-year-old self recover from that? She didn’t. She shut out her dad. No dad at all is always better than one who ignores you, right?
Fate was on my side. My dad passed away a year later. The drinking caught up with him. Death sealed the deal. It was a relief, it really was. No longer did I have to tell myself the story that my dad didn’t love me enough to meet me. But it’s true.
I’ll end with this thought: You might think that my dad’s failings damaged me in some way. You’re wrong. My mom loved me enough for two parents. She taught me how to ascertain my worth from within myself. She taught me never to accept less than the best from others, and to block out negativity. And I do.
Preparations
Six days and counting. We’re all excited, but I intend to draw it out. I’m going to savor each and every moment leading up to our departure.
Six days until our first camping trip of the summer. Six days until we load the car with the bare necessities. Six days until we close up the house, leaving the realities and responsibilities behind. Six days until we return to ourselves.
In preparation I will make a list. Food we want, the special things that we eat only in the wilderness. Sugary cereals, smoked sausages to roast over the fire, eggs to cook quickly after our hike, whole melons, and marshmallows, of course marshmallows. And beer.
Also on the list: sunscreen, band aids, flip flops, a new frisbee, some rope, bug spray, ice. Only the necessities, remember?
After shopping, I will pack, arranging everything carefully so unpacking will be effortless. I will stuff the cooler and have it ready to toss in the trunk at the last moment.
I will check the directions and show the kids the campground on the map. I will begin the process of detangling from the demands of home. I will begin to let go.
I will make a playlist of music, a small pile of books to direct my thoughts in their wandering. I will pack my art supplies and sketchbook. Finally, when all is readied, I will wait, excitedly. I will close up the house, shut the curtains and leave things neat to ease our return.
At last, when the sixth day arrives, I will help load the car. I will buckle the baby into his carseat and watch as the kids settle themselves into their seats. As we begin to drive I’ll let my thoughts go, watching and listening. Being. At last.
A confession
I’ve changed. I asked a question and in its answer I discovered more than I thought possible. The memory of my old self feels like a shadow in a clear pool of light.
Let’s take a risk, shall we?
I like to take risks. Not every day, but every once in a while, I like to just jump into something. I love to wander around a new place, I like to hike a difficult trail even with my kids in tow, I get a rush from challenging someone’s ideas.
Now, if you know me, you know that I am not the type to go off the deep end. You probably would never consider me a risk taker. You’ll just have to trust me, I am.
I just took a quiz that proves it. I take most of my risks in the social sphere, but also quite a lot recreationally. I do wait through the cold months to drag my kids to the wilderness for days on end all summer with the bare minimum of supplies, just to teach them how to slow down and survive. I do count on my body to take on whatever adventure I choose, regardless of my training and ability. Sometimes that gets me into trouble, and I like it that way.
The Wall Street Journal article that referenced the quiz explains that women, commonly thought to be more risk-adverse than men, in reality, do take a lot of risks. It’s true, for me. I am, I think, uniquely able to act on my thoughts and desires. I am out of the workforce right now, by choice, which gives me a certain level of freedom to do as I please. I am not accountable to a boss, other than my family. Really, I feel no pressure to impress anyone right now, which I did for all of my 20s. In the absence of pressure, I can consider my true opinions about things. In most cases, I feel comfortable speaking up about my opinions, politely of course. When I do feel uncomfortable, I’ve come to like the energy burst it gives me.
So why, you might ask, would I consider giving up this freedom, my time with my kids, my ownership of my life to return to the workforce in a new, uncharted capacity? Why, if I am so fortunate to have all that I technically need, do I feel so drawn to reinvent myself at this moment? It’s completely risky. I am investing my time and energy in a project that has no formal description and has no documented endgame. I want to be creative and get paid for it. It’s going to be difficult and demanding and I’m going to love every minute of it. Because I am a risk taker. I’m with 36-year-old Paul Cusma, investment banker and speed junkie, who calls it when he says, “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I forgot to live my life.â€
Rainy day
I feel so powerful in my rainboots.
Thoughts on a Monday morning
Many years ago, I painted something for a boyfriend.
A tree frog on a branch.
Vivid, it popped off the canvas, lifelike.
Nearly the instant I completed it, I gave it to him. Not long after, we parted ways. Almost immediately, I wanted that painting back.
That was a piece of myself.
Mine.
I’ve carried that anger around for almost 20 years. Just recently, I contacted him, in friendship. I asked for the painting back. You know what?
He sent it.
Professionally wrapped, expensively sent. Clearly, it had been well cared for. I had asked him to mark it in some way, to prove his ownership of it. He neglected to, but I shall do it for him. I have no compunction about messing it up. And I will always know the truth.
And I will love that he returned that piece of myself, intact, pristine but for the passage of time.
Thank you.
