It was 2:37 am when I slipped into bed last Friday. I had been sewing and I kept checking the time, making deals with myself. I’ll just attach the facing and then I’ll just finish the hem and then I’ll just cut out the pattern for the next project. I made deals with myself for hours and, while I was physically alone, I felt camaraderie and encouragement to keep going. I was sewing with my mom and my grandma.
Our summer end-of-day routine is full and harried. Andy uses the word insane to describe it. I don’t know how but every day we are shocked to learn it is already 6pm. The next few hours are like a choreographed dance on a craggy staircase with wheeled toys underfoot. A contemporary dance with lots of dramatic falls and jerky twirls and irregular rhythm. Andy is right. It’s insane. And I love it.
We pull food from the ground and paw through the pantry to put together a meal. We share the day’s stories around Margot singing Feist and in between sweeping paperclips out of Ruby’s mouth. Forks lay exactly where the last bite was taken and our dog eats the leftovers off the counter. We barely remember to feed the new fish and our bed is unmade, a consistent reminder that we are not good at changing sheets. Clean pjs are plucked straight off the line next to the chatty hens and sprinklers are moved from the beans to the beets. A martini is poured and an oweie is kissed.
Andy is home on Fridays. This past week, however, he had an appointment and it was when he was gone when he is usually there that I realized how much I rely on that change in our Monday-Thursday routine. How much my kids rely on it. All three of us were twitchy, needing a break. There was a collective exhale when papa got home and Andy, recognizing my grumpiness, promptly said, um, babe, why don’t you go somewhere and do something. Yeah, my thoughts exactly.
I ran work-related errands and went bra shopping. It wasn’t what I needed. I needed to do something for me, something that wasn’t on my to-do list. So, again at my husband’s sweet encouragement, I went somewhere and did something.
I grabbed my running shoes and got in the car. I drove in silence under the August sky heading toward one of the dozens of trails that hug my city. I made a few phone calls to see if I could swing by and grab a friend to hike with before I realized I didn’t want a friend to hike with. Or, rather, I wanted to hike with my own friendship.
You know the ol’ expression, I can’t see the forest through the trees? Meaning one is unable to see the impressive old growth because of all the ground cover and underbrush when really all they have to do is look up except sometimes the foliage is so thick and tall that even when looking up, the trees are still mostly hidden? Sometimes I feel like that as a mama of two little ones. I wonder when will I ever stop bushwhacking? My body aches. I am thirsty and so tired and I just keep on keepin’ on because I love big trees and the tangled vines tripping me up are challenging in a rewarding way….they aren’t even so much in the way as they are part of the way.
Last week I looked up and I was in a clearing.
I walked into the girl’s room and they were playing together. Not side by side, not Margot grabbing a toy out of Ruby’s mouth and then earnestly shoving a different one in her tiny hands hoping for engagement, not Ruby fussing because she couldn’t reach a book. Together, sharing and chatting for many minutes.
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