As I walk to the car, wearing comfortable jeans and sensible sneakers, purse packed with a water bottle and a book, one hand high overhead so as not to drag my daughter’s costume bag, her makeup freshly scrubbed from my fingertips, I smile to myself and turn to holler at my husband. 36, baby! Is this what you saw when you scooped me up at 19?! He smiles back at me and says, I’ll take that any day. And off we go, my baby and I, to the weekend-long ordeal that is a ballet recital. To my own mother, who survived these things on my behalf decades ago, thank you.
Last night, I slept through an earthquake and my own hurt feelings and anxious thoughts. Today, I got to walk a nurse through a med error and show her that we blame processes, not people. Today, I got to build bridges with people I previously thought impossible. Today, I got to stand with cherished coworkers and address a classroom of graduates to tell them they matter to our community. Today, I got to walk into a new restaurant on my husband’s arm and enjoy a date night with live music, because he heard me and made a reservation ahead of time. House kimchi and a matcha cocktail included. Happy Friday the 13th to me.
It’s the fear of being a sociopath that means I’m not one. Wish the same logic worked for being wrong but hey, I’ll take what I can get.
Lately, my coworkers and I have been taking a walk each day at 1pm. We invite folks from different departments and do a quick lap around the campus. It’s amazing how much return on investment there is for eleven minutes and a few calories spent on a familiar person in a different light.
Today, I felt brave as I engaged in difficult conversations and yet as I reflected, I found them to be conversations I could have easily navigated without a second thought years ago. These days, however, certain types of interactions seem insurmountable. There is a significant relational impact, a consequence, I’d argue, which follows locking down my mind/body/soul/workplace for two years straight. My social muscles have atrophied; mine, and maybe yours. I think it’s time to build them back up again. Cheers.
Last week, someone asked me about my hobbies. It’s like he’s read my mental diary or something. I’ve been preoccupied with this question for more than a year now. Grad school is over, our cross-country move is completed, my kids are significantly more self-sufficient, what now? I do not know. I honestly do not know. I enjoy reading and tending to my houseplants and cooking from books and taking walks and putting together decent outfits… but dang, I need a hobby.
I think that perhaps, since the perfect Mother’s Day does not exist, a more suitable Mother’s Day should in fact include a public, earth-shattering yell into the universe that the perfect Mother’s Day does not exist. I’d like us all follow that with an embrace of the moms we’ve got, and the moms we don’t, and the moms we are, and the moms we wish we were, and the moms next door, and the moms of the people we crushed on in high school, and the moms our friends have yet to become. I’d like us to hold them, all of the moms, in our hearts and then I’d like us to put our hands on top and whisper to ourselves the perfect Mother’s Day does not exist. But I do, and I am enough.