I have two kids, two dogs, and a cat. I have a job that lets me afford a tiny house, private schools for my children, car repairs, and cat food. I love shoes, books, and cats, though not necessarily in that order. I spend my weekends inside the house, battling clutter, making failed attempts at cooking, drawing cockroaches for my four-year-old.
Amy is a single mother. Her son does not live with her. She chose to be alone. What I find refreshing about her, in the light of my own crowded family life, is the thought of running the show on her own. I think it would be restful to sometimes not think too much about the man of the house, the obligations of the wife, the children's upbringing, the faces we show the public that say we are what society deems successful women should be. I envy Amy for the guiltless weekend she could spend in the beach with her friends. I bet Amy could put a dining table in her bedroom for crafts and little projects, something I wanted but couldn't do in the shared territory of our own master's bedroom. Amy could buy shoes without equating them with cans of preschool milk powder.
But I don't know Amy's journey, and the choices she made to be what she is now. What I know is that we are both grown women, in different circumstances, working to raise children and have interesting lives at the same time. And I know that sometimes it gets tiring.
When mothers get fed up, or just plain tired, they do strange things. Some moms go out and get a horrible perm that makes them look like seaweed. Some take weekend trips with just their friends. Some raid bookstores. Some go on shoe-hunting expeditions. Each of us has her own way of feeling good about herself. And we deserve it, because you never know how hard we try to be a good wife and mother, not to mention dishwasher, bathroom cleaner, nurse, errand girl, playground defender, and a host of other things we are forced to do, like hunt around inside the garbage bin for Barbie's missing f**king shoe.
You see, mothers are forever holding their breaths for small crises, real or imagined, that may threaten their own little world. We’re forever waiting for scraped knees to soothe, algebra equations to solve, missing socks to find, quarrels to pacify, gossip to spread, promotions that never come, magical sex, so that we can put on our costume and try to be Wonder Woman.
Most of the time, we succeed. But we are human. So when we get mad, or when we walk out, or when we break plates, that’s us, exhaling. When we sing like crazy, when we get drunk, when we try something that you say isn’t age-appropriate like pole-dancing or blue mascara, that’s also us, exhaling. And the best way to do it is with our own friends, other women with whom we can lay our souls bare and just be whatever we are at that particular time. Not Wonder Woman; just a woman.
So this is for all my girlfriends out there: for Irene and Milette, for Sharon, Joy, and Trixie, for another Joy, for Carol, for Almira. When they share in my joys, I am doubly happy. When they cry with me, the load gets lighter. Yes, we do discuss the impact of Victoria's Secret lingerie on our sex life, but we also discuss the merits of home-schooling, positive reinforcement, and helicopter parenting. We giggle a lot, we pig out, we get outrageous. And we come out of it fortified, reassured of our own worth, ready to be Wonder Woman for our family again.
Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry
Life never tells us, the whens or why
When you’ve got friends to wish you well
You’ll find your point when you will exhale
Exhale, by Whitney Houston
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