I just threw my underwear into the toilet. I walked into the bathroom to take a shower (stop visualizing!), took off my underwear, lifted the lid of the toilet and threw them in. Now, I’m sitting here comforting myself with this mantra, “the laundry basket has a lid. The laundry basket has a lid. The laundry basket has a lid.” Because, well, the laundry basket does indeed have a lid, and a very distracted person (me) could easily confuse (although they are in different rooms) the toilet for the laundry basket. Because they both have lids.
Oh dear Jesus.
I’m a little distracted.
When I was a kid, I wanted a few things that were not to be. One, I wanted to be named Heather. Heather Miller, actually. Not because I knew a Heather Miller and envied her life or anything, simply because I liked the name Heather Miller, and felt it was a perfectly good name for a teacher. Which leads us to the second thing I wanted, which was to be a teacher. A teacher named Heather Miller. This seemed perfectly reasonable, and therefore I believed I could will it into being so. The third thing I wanted desperately (besides wanting to meet Michael Jackson and make him love me forever) was super-curly hair. I tried this on and off with various perms, but I never actually achieved it. I wanted natural, uncontrollably curly hair. In a bob. And to tell you the truth, I wanted this particular thing for a long, long time. In fact, if you could magically make my hair into a uncontrollably curly bob right now? I would totally take it.
Are you asking yourself what the hell this has to do with my underwear landing in the toilet? Patience, people. Patience.
Now that I’m all grown up (well, physically at least) I want things like, money so I can fix the broken window on my car . . . or rock-hard abdominals without having to actually do anything. I would also like a jet pack, but that seems reasonable. I would like at least two more hours in the day, a babysitter that doesn’t spend 80 percent of the time that she’s in my house texting, perfect posture, a luscious garden of endless sugar snap peas in my back yard, a massage therapist that comes daily to my home (which has magically grown another room, just for me) to work on me, and slightly longer legs—mostly so I wouldn’t have to lose weight, because the weight would then be more evenly distributed. While I’m at it, I would love to be able to have my thoughts translated into text and shot out of my brain and onto my computer. I suppose that I just have to wait a few more years and that may actually happen.
And then we have one of the things I’ve wanted the most over the last couple of years, since becoming a mother. Well, I wanted to not have to utter the phrase, “Luca! Don’t lick my eye!” but, that was not to be. Because he totally licked my eye. What I wanted more was to have my own creative life. At a certain point when you have small children, you look around at your life, to take stock, and realize that you have nothing that matters to or inspires you, besides your family. Of course, family matters and is deeply important, but for most mothers that I know, we long for something more. Something that identifies us as women, as independent individuals in the world, for at least 5 minutes a day. It doesn’t seem like a lot to ask, but it is. And the longer you go without any sense of self, the more resentful you become. Or, to be more accurate, the more resentful I became. And then, of course, we slide into the terrible cycle of guilt for wanting more, and for not being satisfied by our children and partners. And then we long for more, and then guilt, and then more, and then guilt. It’s a horrible cycle of self loathing!
Recently, I had a moment of complete clarity. In it, I realized that I have been writing this blog for a year and a half. I’m a writer. I actually have time to do this! And my jewelry, too. I have been able to be visually creative and earn a little money doing it. It stunned me. When I was in the thick of it—the parenthood trenches—I never thought I would manage to make it here, to this point. I sit and write uninterrupted for an hour, because the boys are playing quietly with each other in the other room. Gone are the days of a sentence here, another sentence an hour later, two more the next day, making it take an entire week to write a post. That’s how I started, and I’m sort of shocked I didn’t throw my computer (or my children) off the roof.
And then, recently, just to make me feel both super lucky and as if a large piano may fall on my head at any moment, I got a job. You may want some back story if you are new to me, so check this shit out. Here’s where it get’s freaky. Two months ago, I said to my husband, “if only I could find a job in my industry that I could do from home for, like, 10 hours a week. But nothing like that exists! What am I going to do?” He shrugged his shoulders in compassionate commiseration, and we both just mulled over my predicament. Then, I get a message from someone who wants to talk to me about a job. For ten hours a week. From home. In my industry.
That was a month ago, and I am now employed as a title-yet-to-be-determined with an amazing start-up business. More on that when the time comes, but for now, let’s just ponder the magical powers of the universe, shall we? Seriously, people! Ponder it! Ponder it! Ponder the magical fucking powers!
And so, I threw my underwear in the toilet because my life is so full! It’s so full that my brain is full! And my brain is full of things that interest me! And things that inspire me! And, clearly, things that distract me. But that’s alright with me, because I’m happy, and I’m motivated, and I’m lucky. I just feel so very lucky.
My underwear? Not so lucky