Over the weekend I got to go out to a nightclub with this sign on the wall:
It’s funny how being jammed into a totally oversold club and having beer sloshed on my feet can have the effect of making me feel like I can breathe again. I suppose it’s the magic mix of having no one to be responsible for (except myself, which apparently I forgot about if the way I felt when I woke up is anything to go by) and doing something that I used to do when I wasn’t anyone’s mom.
It’s not that I’m wanting to go back and be twenty-three again (well, maybe a teeny bit sometimes, but it’s strictly for the body), but I do find myself wishing that I’d done a better job of being twenty-three when I was there. And it is this, this very feeling, that causes parents to lecture kids about choices and planning and thinking things through. The longer I parent; the more of those moments I have where I relate so completely to my own parents, the more I realize that so many things can’t be taught. Some stuff you just have to go through to learn. At least, that is true for me.
On Sunday Willow and I went to visit with Gwendomama, Supergirl, and Bubbles (who is in need of a new name). We had a nice, low-key afternoon, that passed too quickly while we talked and I ate all the food in the whole house. (It was good. I was powerless.) We were sent home with some fantastic little wooden toys and what was left of the excellent pumpkin bread, which, uh, didn’t make it home. Again, I was powerless, and Willow helped some.
And now, I must get my non-stage diving ass to the school to pick up the kids.