Today it struck me: we’ll be in Boston and New York in a couple of weeks, shaking hands and kissing babies, hanging out with the HBH’s side of the family and sight-seeing galore in the big lights, bright city. …And we’ll be toting an Ergo, a travel stroller, a diaper bag and an “I want to crawl everywhere and stick everything in my mouth” 10-month old with us.
Suddenly, visions of sewer rats and darkened criminals and the altogether too many episodes of Law and Order: SVU I watched while lying prostrate on the couch first trimester dance through my head, and I realize …we’re cray cray.
Because New York, at least in my Sex and the City-soaked mind, is for made for girlfriends. It’s made for flights across country with Copey to visit Re, for wrapping scarves around our necks and our noses and our ears in order to watch the Macy’s Day Parade Live!, and for Thanksgiving dinner at the corner Chinese restaurant. It’s about visiting the Seinfeld coffee shop and scooping up leaves in Central Park, and it’s about standing in line in the bitter cold to get tickets for RENT, that night. Because we can. It’s about bachelorette weekends and wearing all black – because isn’t that NYC’s official color? – and wondering why you just don’t feel quite as crazysexycool like Carrie and Samantha, although you do hope to wear that ribbon of confidence in a couple of years.
And here’s where I come to the realization of intertwined expectations and memories – and the unhealthiness that can exist in that space. Maybe I realize that vacation to me now means getting to take an eensy-weensy breather in the realm of mama-hood, and that a three-hour difference in time zone, without the comforts of home might not be the breath of fresh air I was looking for. And maybe there’s also the realization that it’s so easy to become creatures of habit, eager to stay in our closeted, homey caves, because it helps our kid sleep better, and because it’s more frugal to make your own latte than to daily consume a cup from the green and white.
But then we realize we’re forgetting to live.
And I, for one, am certainly not ready to play dead yet.
And so the dance begins: we’ll head to the east coast for vacation, and Cancan’s sleep schedule will get all screwed up. I’ll miss an afternoon of sight-seeing, and will instead curl up in our hotel room with a good book – but then I’ll sit on the balcony and I’ll order room service, and I’ll think to myself, Oh self, you silly little thing you. Pish posh, apple sauce. You’re living the dream, little lady.
And then I’ll thank God that He’s not done with me yet, and I’ll muse over how He makes all things – even silly things like trips to Boston and New York – new. I’ll hum a Jesus-diddy, and I’ll shake my head in wonder and in disbelief, and then looking back towards the sleeping miracle of a son in the other room, I’ll say aloud …we’re cray cray.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
How do you need to let a little cray cray into your life?0