Thursday, October 23, 2014

We’re goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married…

Wedding Chapel 
Yes. We’re finally getting hitched. Tying the knot. Making it official. Or as the song goes, “we’re goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get ma-a-a-rried…” The chapel you see above, specifically. It’s probably news to several people we know as most just assume we already are, what with the two kids, two cats, and one house in nine years and all. And who can blame them?

So why now? Well, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt finally did it - we figured it’s now cool again to get married. (I’m kidding, people. KIDDING.)

Frankly, it’s because - and here’s the unromantic part of why we’re taking the plunge - I got tired of lying. Not that we were purposely deceitful; I never had any issues with admitting that we weren’t married, but now that we’re at a new place with a relatively clean slate, neighbors, friends, and parents of our kids who meet us automatically assume we’re married. Heck, even the UPS driver does.

And when they refer to My Guy as my husband or me as his wife, it’s just awkward to try to correct all these people we don’t know, so we just let it go (this is where both my girls will giggle and break into that song that never dies from “Frozen”). Sometimes, when calling the bank or utility company, just to make things easier, we use “wife” and “husband” to avoid having to use the ambiguous term, “partner”. Which is ironic, considering it’s the best description of what we are - partners in everything we do; partners for life.

Yet, it seems to need a qualifier or further explanation because it’s also a term used by gay couples and those in business together so instead of clarifying things, it only makes it more confusing. As for calling him my “boyfriend” - I’d stopped that the moment Little Miss was born over five years ago. Boyfriend just seems to trivialize what we have. It also feels fleeting or temporary, even juvenile. Like someone I’m “going steady with”, and I don’t even remember the last time I said that. In high school maybe?

I blame society and our culture for not having a term that adequately describes our relationship. Not everyone wants to be married, and even though our relationship is not any less than those who choose the opposite, without a proper reference that captures the breadth and depth of our commitment, we’re left to patch holes in the lexicon with qualifiers and adjectives. When we started filing papers together as a family, we used to joke that we’ll just start calling one another “D.P.” as in Domestic Partners. Maybe we’d start a movement; maybe we could create a new status quo.

That didn’t take, obviously. “D.P.” just sounds ridiculous - even I couldn’t say that with a straight face.

Since neither of us are religious, we didn’t have to worry about sin. We also went to an attorney to plan our estate and had wills prepared. With the religious and legal matters settled, we didn’t really see the need to make things official. Especially since I’d been married before, in a church nonetheless. So if God and the law couldn’t keep us together then, why would I readily jump into another marriage knowing that those are scarcely the ingredients we need for a happy, long-lasting relationship?

My Guy and I were already happy, so what could marriage give us that we didn’t already have?

The truth, apparently. After moving to Texas, the frequency in which I find myself lying (or rather, avoiding telling the truth) about our status just to go with the flow - my husband this, my husband that - has increased dramatically, and I cringe with each incident. When people assumed we were married, we just nodded and smiled. Sure. Whatever.

And I couldn’t sure, whatever our relationship anymore. Not when we’ve been through so much together. Not when we’d fought so hard to stay with each other. And won. Twice! We love how far we’ve come, and we are incredibly proud of our commitment to each other because of the shit we had to go through to get here.

But when we can’t even have our union recognized in a way that it deserves to be, it’s a little very frustrating. I know I shouldn’t need to justify who and what we are to others, but when we’re in mixed company and I find myself admitting we’re not married, it almost trivializes all the work we have put into our relationship. And that really bothers me.

As long as society reveres the sacred union of a marriage above others and exalts the status of “husband” and “wife”, it feels like there would always be this invisible hierarchy among families, and we’d always be second rate. Which is hard for me to accept, because we’re every bit as committed as those who are married. But I hate that there is no way to outwardly express that with one perfect word. And I hate cringing each time I don’t correct someone who assumed we’re married.

Hence the wedding day in five days, when he’s literally making an honest woman out of me. Admittedly, all of this is a rather unromantic way to arrive at the altar. BUT. Romance is not dead.

It will still be a day full of love. It will be a day all about us as a couple, us as a family, as a wedding should be.

There will only be the six of us - the bride and groom, my best friend, his best friend, and our best girls - at the chapel, but it’s a meaningful six. After all, they’re the people who were there at the start of our relationship, and who stood by and supported us as a couple throughout the years, and our girls were the ones who have strengthened it. I love that they get to witness their parents exchange their vows in front of them, so they can see for themselves that yes, we are truly and deeply committed, and that no, love isn’t just about princess fairy tales and long white gowns.

Love can look like this too.

Even though we were adamant that it would be an informal affair, My Guy refused a courthouse wedding. In our search for a place that best reflects us, we found a little non-religious outdoor chapel that’s part of The Wizard Academy (hah! it’s actually a business school but we thought, hey, we both love the Harry Potter books, how perfect!), and it’s perched on the hills of Austin, which is our favorite thing about our new home. 

It’s going to be both simple yet exquisite, because as unromantic as we might have been in arriving at this decision (no, no one proposed; we just talked ourselves into this), it’s still going to be a beautiful day.

It’s the day I get to marry the love of my life after all. In the end, despite all the fighting of the status quo and the hesitation in giving in to convention, the girl in me just can’t wait to really, truly call the boy of my dreams my husband.


Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Waiting her whole life for the bus

I heard the padding feet before I felt her standing beside me. In the darkness, I moved over and made some space, and wordlessly, Pickle climbed in and snuggled under the covers next to me. I peeped at the clock: 4:10AM.

At about 5:30, despite a quiet house (except for the snoring cat and kid beside me) my eyes opened instinctively and strained to look at the door, where I saw a shadow. Little Miss, who’d learned to be quiet around her sleeping little sister stood waiting, probably for an invitation, and I whispered for her to climb in with us.

I was fully awake by then but the alarm would not sound for another 50 minutes for the morning frenzy to begin. My Guy was in Chicago again for work, and Pickle had decided to keep me company in the wee hours of the morning for the past couple of days - something she once rarely did.  But it seems that we cycle through a new normal every few weeks, scrambling old routines to fit in that which is novel to our same ole same ole. Like starting Kindergarten, then having both girls in different schools, and ramping up on work travel for My Guy.

Just when I think I have a handle on our situation - whatever that may be at the moment - something throws us off, and we make the necessary changes to adapt. I’d mentioned before that I jumped in with both feet to get involved with the PTA at Little Miss’ school, gleefully volunteering to create and manage their Facebook page, and I’m also happy to report that my first big event that I helped organize, the Annual School Picnic, went without a hitch. It was a beautiful September evening, warm enough to entice a large crowd and cool enough for all of us to stay there comfortably to get to know the school community. There were food trucks galore, a magic show, balloon twisters, and face painters - I don’t know about the kids, but I had a great time!



Little Miss scanned the crowd, found a buddy from her class and ditched us the rest of the evening. Really? Does it start this early? While it should have stung, it didn’t; it was comforting to see my five-year-old already so comfortable in her school and independently navigating her social network with such confidence. She even stood in line and paid for snow cones by herself (well, with a friend); it was the first time she’d ever made a monetary transaction on her own, and she even came back with the change! When I see her forging ahead, completely unabashed and unafraid, I forget that she still needs me sometimes. I forget that girl who would love nothing more than to be able to climb into bed with me on those rare but oh-so-delicious nights.

That’s probably why I find myself surprised when she takes my hand these days as we walk along the sidewalk after I pick her up from the bus. Oh yes, the bus. After weeks of Little Miss asking and asking and asking to be on it, I finally acquiesced once I learned that she will be getting off at a stop with several kids, including a classmate who lives down the street from us. I was adamant in making it through the year without having to worry about her on the bus, but this girl had shown me that she could handle more than I gave her credit for, and when I saw her classmates on there too, I realized it was me who was holding her back.

After a day of fretting the details, walking her to the bus driver to introduce ourselves, talking to the school office and the school teacher, taking her to the stop to make sure she learned her route, writing and placing notes for Little Miss in several places about the bus route, and even following the bus home from school one day to stalk it to make sure it was reliable (oh yes I did), I was finally ready. She was excited; I was nervous.

So on the day she was scheduled to arrive on the bus, I remembered the remark that the school transport admin said over the phone after she told me the time the bus was scheduled to be at the stop, “but they’re never on time.” Because of that, I decided to show up right at the time it’s supposed to be there, so I would catch her for sure since it’s bound to be late anyway.

Except it wasn’t. It arrived three minutes earlier than scheduled (GAH!) and from afar, I saw my daughter climb down the bus looking for me half a block away. The driver spotted me jogging towards them, but I don’t think he saw just how disappointed I was that I missed being right there for her, as I told her I would be. The first day on the bus picture completely foiled by my own idiocy. Why didn’t I think to be there earlier??!

BUT. There’s always the next day, I consoled myself after kicking myself in the butt a few times and apologizing profusely to Little Miss who seemed completely nonplussed. She got to ride the bus - that’s all she cared about. Later, however, I saw a cloud on her face and when prodded, she responded reluctantly, “Well...I didn’t get to sit with my friend from class. We have assigned seats, and I was next to a second grader I didn’t know…And the ride was loud and bumpy, and they didn’t even have seat belts!”

Apparently, it wasn’t all that she had hoped it would be. After weeks of anticipation, she was underwhelmed by her first experience, and who could blame her? Every kid is taught to revere the train and the bus since they were born, with Thomas the Train this, the Wheels on the Bus that. I remember Little Miss going to her first musical “The Emperor’s New Clothes” when she was two at the gorgeous Shakespeare Theater in Chicago and shouting a request at the performers, “Bus! Bus!” that I knew meant, Hey, can you sing the Wheels on the Bus?

It was a big deal, that first time. Instead, I screwed up the Kodak moment (when you’re reading this someday, girls, I wonder if you even know what “Kodak” means) and she didn’t have the kind of fun she imagined she would. It probably felt like the world was conspiring against her - the cheery songs, the smiling grownups who sang them, the appeal of the unknown in the form of a massive, clunky mustard yellow monster of a vehicle. It all sounded so good; it wasn’t supposed to feel that shitty!!!

Needless to say, she wasn’t all that excited to go back the next day, and while I would’ve jumped to keep her safe and close to me, and offer her the ride home again every day, I decided that I wouldn’t really be doing her a favor. It’s one thing to see your happy child go forth and conquer, but it’s quite another to see them figuring things out for themselves when things don’t go their way. Handling disappointments and finding their own silver lining -- those too are an essential part of their growth.

At five, I realized she needed help in the silver lining department, so I sat with her and spoke to her about my own bus experiences. About how I sat among strangers on my first day and by the first month, my bus ride home was one of the things I looked forward to the most because I got to know so many people from so many parts of the school outside of my own class. About how she always got along better with older kids, so the second grader next to her was actually an advantage.

The talking helped, and so did getting her back on it the next day. And the next. Now it’s become a non-issue and a new-new normal for us. I’m still that parent who’s often the last one at the stop, but this big little girl of mine is doing well, as I suspected she would.

And hey, I finally got my picture. Actually, pictures.







Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Autumn in Austin

photo 5 (36)The bee isn’t small; the flower is just that big. Well, it is Texas…

Today is the autumnal equinox, which marks the official first day of fall. Says the calendar, anyway. It certainly doesn’t feel that way in Austin. As excited as I always am for this season - the changing leaves, the fall colors, the crisp cool air, the soup on the stove, the pumpkin everything, oh my! - I know I can’t expect the same here as what I’d experienced in Chicago.

And I’m right to be cautious, because while the colors have also changed here, it looks like anything but fall. No hues of gold, auburn, and rust to dot nature’s palette in these parts. Instead, what I see is stunning, bold, vivacious, technicolor life after a long, hot summer that fried much of my yard. After nearly two weeks of torrential downpours and thunderstorms that flooded the creeks and low lying areas, all the grass that died and the plants that hung on by a fiber are back in full, glorious force.

It’s gorgeous, I have to say, but I’d be lying if I don’t also say that I’m going to miss the fall that I’ve known and loved for the past 20 years. There’s something to be said about snuggling on the couch with My Guy under a blanket with a mug of hot toddy on a crisp October evening. Or dressing in boots and cozy layers, accessorizing with scarves and knit hats. Fall is so my season.


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But this is what fall looks and feels like in Austin: Still green. Still warm. Still summer. I procured some ingredients to make pumpkin muffins today, but really, who am I kidding? It would feel like those celebrities trucking in fake snow to their homes so their children in southern California would experience a white Christmas. Yeah, just like that.

Yet, part of me wonders if I learned to love fall because, well, what else could I do, living in Chicago? We learn to make do. We learn to love orange and amber, we learn to embrace wool (which I never did, by the way), we learn to sip cider so we could also warm our always-cold hands, and we learn to distract ourselves with fall’s best to avoid thinking about the inevitable, impenetrable grey and frigid cold of winter.

In the winter, we also learn to love the snow. I did, anyway.

We all deal. Whether it’s what we tell ourselves or whether it genuinely becomes a part of us, we learn to find ways to love where we are planted. I can’t imagine being happy any other way.

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If I ignore the fact that fall looks entirely different in other (colder) parts of the country, it’s kind of nice to drive up to my house to see everything so alive and vibrant again. It’s my candy-colored happy. The sun has let up, and we’re seeing cooler temperatures, rather than the blistering heat of the past months. We can actually enjoy being outside in the middle of the day again. In fact, the fall is looking to be a pretty fantastic summer.


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In our summer dresses, the girls and I ventured to the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center this past Sunday with My Guy, and I was taken aback by all the beauty that surrounded us that day. They did an astounding job in showcasing the indigenous plants and flowers, and I am ashamed to admit that, before moving here, I expected to hate the flora and fauna out here. Leaves that don’t change in the fall, soil that barely holds any water, rain that rarely falls - what could I possibly expect from this part of the country?

Apparently, quite a bit.

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Have I mentioned how much I love majestic old trees? Here, you could swing from them in myriad ways.

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Or climb them.


And every day, I’m learning to love it out here a little more. While I’m still getting used to the fact that I could see a family of five deer grazing in someone’s lawn, three large buzzards landing on the street a couple of hundred yards from me, and a snake crossing my path on the sidewalk (eek!) all during my one morning run, I realize that this, too, is part of the area’s charm.

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This was at the Wildflower Center, but I’ve seen this Beware sign more times than I can remember now. Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not quite #TexasForever yet. I vacillate back and forth everyday between expressing disbelief that we moved out here and gratitude that we did. But the fact of the matter is, I’m here. I can’t change everything that I don’t love about this place, but I can eventually learn to love what I don’t. Or at least peacefully live with it. If this girl from the tropics could enjoy her run on a snowy 30-degree winter afternoon, anything’s possible right?

So. There may not be hot toddies under the blanket by the fire anytime soon for us, but ice-cold cocktails by the pool in October?  Surely I could get used to that.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

A childhood memory: Laksa curry mee

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I was maybe 10 or 12 , somewhere around there. I know I was in primary school, and we were still living in Brickfields, a neighborhood in the middle of Kuala Lumpur, with my Kuma, my dad’s oldest sister who had helped raise me. For lunch, my dad would take me to this hawker stall* that made killer laksa curry mee near our flat, and there I would order the same thing every time: only meehoon, no mee, extra fried tofu, raw cockles and extra spicy.

It may be a bowl of curry noodles, but with many ingredients (different types of noodles, such as the thicker yellow noodle, “mee”, or the thinner rice vermicelli, “meehoon”, beansprouts, tofu, chicken, chili paste, known as sambal, cooked or raw cockles, and sometimes fishballs and hard-boiled eggs) we could configure it to our personal taste. We went there so often that the lady who ran the stall knew us, and she would prepare our food the way we liked it even before we placed our order.

Eventually, I would see less of my dad, when he started to be away from the family more than he was with us, but I never stopped going to the curry laksa lady. A valuable lesson from an absentee parent is that you just have to learn to do some things on your own. My mom worked a nine-to-five job, and I would just make my way to the stall myself for lunch. As an only child of working parents, I became independent at an early age. Dining alone was never an issue for me, and so there I was, slurping my spicy noodles in the middle of a 90-degree day and sweating into the bowl at the same time. Good times.

I still think about that laksa lady to this day, although I’m pretty sure she’s no longer there; it’s been more than 20 years since I’d seen her. I’d order curry mee in Malaysian restaurants in the States, and sadly, it wouldn’t taste like hers. Now that we are here in Austin, there isn’t even a Malaysian restaurant in the area, which means if I’m homesick for the food, and if you know Malaysians, you know we’re always about our food, my only option is to make it myself.

And that I did, one day last week. Laksa curry mee, nonetheless. I was hesitant because it is a spicy dish, but you know how sometimes you’re just so desperate to experience something from your childhood that you would go to any lengths just to have a taste of it? Well, that was me. A Malaysian friend of mine swears by this laksa spice mix from back home, and because she could easily get it from Colorado, where she lives, she so sweetly mailed the packets of spice to me. I purchased the rest of the ingredients - all except the fresh raw cockles, which were hard to find here - and made it for dinner one evening.

I was surprised at how delicious it was. In fact, it tasted similar to what I remembered from the laksa lady, and slurping it on a hot Austin evening with sweat forming on my forehead, it took me, no, threw me back to the hawker stall I once loved. I hadn’t experienced anything quite that visceral in such a long time, but food does that doesn’t it?

As much as I loved it, however, I was a little worried about the girls. It was as spicy as I remembered it, and with a five- and three-year-old who weren’t raised on sambal and chilies, I had low expectations when it came to their reaction. I approached them with one bowl to first offer them a taste and braced myself as they took their first bite. Immediately, their eyes grew wide and they sucked in their breath, asking for water in between gasps for air through their teeth, making the “sss...sss...sss” sound.

Oh shit, this is too much.

I went to the kitchen with the bowl of laksa in hand to get their water, and looked around for a contingency plan. I don’t normally make the kids different food from what we’re having, even if it’s spicy or if it has a particularly strong flavor, but that evening, after their initial reaction, I felt guilty. Perhaps it was too soon for them to try this, let alone like it.

But as I was scanning around the kitchen for an alternative, I heard Pickle calling, “Mommy, where’s the food? I want another bite!”


I came back with water and after a few gulps, they went back for the next bite. And the next, and the next. I was floored. Just like I did, they savored each spicy bite and alternated it with water, with beads of sweat forming on their little nose. And that made me wonder if appreciating bold flavors is something that’s passed on by blood or by exposure. Either way, it’s working in my favor.

Now I can have my curry laksa at home, and eat it with my family too! It’s incredibly satisfying to be able to share a childhood favorite with the people we love isn’t it? After all, isn’t that why many of us spend all that time cooking in the kitchen? For sustenance, yes, but also for love – both for the flavors and the people for whom we’re cooking - and legacy?

I asked if they liked their meal and both nodded yes but admitted that it was “a little spicy”. I laughed and squeezed them. Oh, how I adore these girls – they never cease to amaze me. If I had any doubt about whether they really did enjoy their food, Pickle put that to rest the next day while her sister was at school because when given the option between leftover tortellini soup from dinner two nights ago or leftover laksa for lunch, she quickly answered, “laksa”.

Was I surprised? Hell yes. I was sure she’d pick the palate-friendly soup, but I should have known better than to expect otherwise from this little girl who’s as bold and complex and fiery as the bowl of noodles in front of her.

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* If you’d like to learn more about these ubiquitous hawker stalls in Malaysia, here’s a good site to visit about the best hawker foods in Penang, an island state in Malaysia known for their beaches and food. You will see how crazy we are about our food -- we don’t care if the stall is by a roadside ditch or if it looks grungy; good food is good food, and we’d travel miles just to taste it.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

A new kind of life

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Life hasn’t been the same since Little Miss started Kindergarten. At least not for me. The back-and-forth trips for pickup and dropoff and managing the schedules of two girls in two different schools have me in the car a lot, which I loathe. That’s the price we pay for finding a home tucked away at the end of civilization. Sure, we get to watch bunnies and deer (eating all my pretty flowers – agh!) in our yard, but that also means there’s no walking to anywhere for us. I know I’ve mentioned this before, and this will probably keep coming up because of all the changes we’ve made since our move here from Chicago, the inability to reach anywhere on foot may be the biggest and worst adjustment I’ve had to make. For nearly 38 years of my life, I’ve always been able to easily reach many places on foot – restaurants, cleaners, convenient stores – and now I think my body is creaking in a funny way from the lack of use. I also feel cut off from the rest of the world, and when you’re new to the area, the isolation is more acute.

Maybe that’s why I was eager to join the PTA at Little Miss’ new school. I wanted to know more families around us – perhaps people we could walk to visit! – and I needed to rebuild the community we lost when we uprooted from our last real home. And that’s how I found myself organizing the annual school picnic scheduled for the end of the month. When I saw an open slot for this I quickly volunteered because me? Plan a party? I could do that in my sleep. I am also on the Board now because I’m the committee lead for communications. Surprise, surprise. My inbox has more PTA-related emails now than work-related ones. Yes, I’ve become that parent. I just need one of my kids to get into soccer to complete the picture. But the thing is, I’m okay with it.

My Guy had to leave town for five days the week both girls started school and admittedly, I was not happy about the timing. Really? Could he have found a more inconvenient time than the first week both girls were back in school with two different sets of needs coming from different directions all at once? After the first-day-of-kindergarten fiasco, I was pretty sure I was going to stumble again somewhere. Except, you know what? I’m happy to report that I didn’t screw up once.  Lunches were made, no one was late, nothing was forgotten – it was a freakin’ miracle. I was amazed at how quickly we embraced the routine, as unfamiliar as it was to us. 

And I have to say, I’m loving this new life. Not only do I get to savor my Mondays and Fridays alone with Pickle while her sister is in all-day kindergarten, I pick Little Miss up from school at 2:45 every day while Pickle is still in preschool so we get to spend the afternoon together. We’ve established a mini routine there, too, where we get home, I check her backpack for school announcements and crafts, I unpack her lunch bag, and we sit down to read and chat together for a little bit before moving the conversation to the kitchen, where I start dinner and she’s learning to help, or she’ll just keep me company, all the while talking about her new school, new friends, new teacher – anything she likes. I absolutely treasure this part of my afternoon with my big girl because when it’s just the two of us, when she doesn’t have to compete to be heard, she’s a different girl, and this girl is an absolute delight. I love how we can now actually laugh about the same things, dream about a far-off vacation or discuss life in general: friendships, heartache, challenges. And I think to myself, you know, as a mother of daughters, that’s the stuff; this is it right here.


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What do you make when you have a sous chef and tomatoes in abundance from the garden?


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Spaghetti and meatballs from scratch of course!


On Friday, to celebrate the end of a successful week with my girls, I took them to a mom-and-pop bounce house near our neighborhood, we had popsicles and watched a movie at home in the evening. I made kale chips instead of popcorn, which the girls gleefully devoured. Oh yeah, we know how to party. That weekend, I took the girls to one of Austin’s best places for kids – the Thinkery, a kids’ museum but with plenty of science-based play – with another mom and her kids, and for lunch, they didn’t have to twist my arm when they suggested In-n-Out Burger. I was really digging the solo-parenting thing; I guess it’s easier when I feel like I’ve got this.

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My Guy would be home on Sunday, but on Saturday, after many evenings at home, I hired a sitter so I could go out with six other moms to see an 80’s cover band in an outdoor venue. I only knew one of them and met the rest for the first time. Four out of seven of us met for dinner and drinks first, and during introductions, a mom with a demanding career said, as she pointed to each person at the table “so you’re an entrepreneur, and so are you, and…” then she pointed to me, “what about you?” It took me by surprise that I didn’t really know what to say. “I write,” I feebly attempted, then added, “I also stay at home with my girls,” which steered the conversation towards the direction of oh how nice to be able to stay at home, which always makes me a little uncomfortable because I don’t know if people say that to be nice or if they really mean it, and it somehow makes me second-guess my own choices.

In a group of ambitious, career-driven women, I felt self-conscious about my own lack of ambition. I work part time from home, I don’t aim to be an executive at some corporation, and I don’t care to run my own company. I’m exactly where I wanted to be, yet, in this setting, I felt suddenly unsure about my own choices. I am that PTA parent in stark contrast to their leaning in in a way that would make Sheryl Sandberg proud, and I forgot how I was once closer to their end of the spectrum and had been unhappy. I forgot how rewarding it is to spend unhurried time with my girls in the middle of the day. I forgot, as a latchkey kid with full-time working parents, how I’d wanted to do things differently for my girls so they would have someone to be here when they come home, to be available for school functions and activities, to be involved in a way that my parents weren’t or couldn’t be.




But as the night progressed, and as we whooped and hollered at songs that took us back to our childhood (“Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! YEAH!”), I was starting to forget my own insecurities as well, because in the end, despite our different backgrounds, as moms, we had more in common than not. For one thing, we all shared the gratitude for an evening away from home, untethered to little creatures demanding our constant attention. At one point during the show, I think we all looked up and around us, observing the downtown buildings towering above, the low moving clouds reflecting the city lights, the (somewhat inebriated) people having fun around us, and we exhaled in relief that there we were, feeling like real people again, having real conversations without the mommy this and mommy that interruptions, and at the same time, trying to recall the last time we saw the city after dark.

When we left, we knew it was back to the usual – the routine of juggling needs that are mostly not ours, the working guilt, the parenting guilt, and now, the PTA emails. All of us isolated in our own way, all of us grasping for some sense of balance to keep going. Always hoping and wondering, but never sure, that what we’re doing is enough. 


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