I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of permission, as it relates to being a woman. In my lifetime there has been a tremendous shift in the paradigm away from McCarthyist homemaker to defining for oneself what your idea of being a woman truly is.
I always thought I was tough. I was raised to think I could do anything my older brothers could, be anything I wanted to be. I was decent enough at sports and held my own with the boys just fine. I was also pretty sure of who I was in my early twenties. At least I thought I was.
I have no image of myself as an old woman. I have guesses. My conjecture is based on everything I knew of my mother and little else. I am like one of those forensic artists who artificially ages suspects or victims. I imagine how my mom would be and how I hope to be at any age greater than 53. That’s when everything stopped. When the sun set.
Mystery breeds intrigue. I believe that. That was sort of my angle when I was a dater. At least I tried to be mysterious. Anyway. It is human nature to be curious about those things unfamiliar to us. I had occasion last night to realize how true this is, and how pivotal a concept that can be, and has been for me for some time now.
Come back to me and make everything better. Come back. 18 years. 18 minutes. 18 weeks. 18 months. 18 days. Its all meaningless. Just before and after the sun set. Today I’m going back down to ol’ rock bottom. I remember your beauty radiating out from under that thin sheet, where you barely existed anymore, only love and a Tibetan wooden necklace Andy and Michael gave you. I thought then “Please. Please don’t leave me here.”
Hello from the Charlotte Airport. It’s been the freaking longest day ever. But I delivered my package safely and intact. We started at 5am and the first part was easy. Even ran into an NFL player at our gate. Of course, I only noticed because of his rings. Colt marched right up and asked him if they were Superbowl Rings. They were. Roland Williams.
The latter half of this week I spent in the mountains of western North Carolina where my oldest son Colt is enrolled in a school for boys on the autism spectrum. I share this because I think it is critical to talk about accommodations and challenges for children with special needs as well as engender solidarity whenever possible.
I am afraid to write about this. So I will. Matt didn’t exactly want a third child. Not then at least. Picture it. New Year’s Day. 2011. I invited him to The Capital Grille for a boozy lunch. And I had an agenda. I bided my time, talking about this and that, and every so often gesticulating to the waiter to signify my desire for another round.
I am in a reflective place lately. Mostly because I am one-on-one with my kids for the first time in a great while. With the exception of a few hours a couple of times a week, its just me and the wolf pack. And you know what? Its nuts. And amazing.
For Christmas he and Chevonne had gotten me what she aptly called “the best worst idea ever.” They had purchased for me the on ramp program at CrossFit Norwalk. That and a pair of knee socks that said “bad ass” on them, one calf sleeve in hot pink, and a pair of weightlifting gloves. I was both perplexed and intimidated.
