I scanned the clothes in my closet and realized that I had nothing to wear. A friend had invited me to an event she organized for her new employer – one of those corporate breakfasts that purportedly allows you to enjoy the best of two worlds: network with a great group of people and absorb words of wisdom from an esteemed group of panelists, and still get to your desk job at a decent hour.
Which is all well and good when you normally wake up at the crack of dawn to go to work, but challenging when you no longer need to wake up at the crack of dawn to go to work. Happy that my friend thought of me and grateful for the invitation, I convinced myself that the event would be good for me – you never know who might require freelance writing services. The girls were off from school and I enlisted Chloe to babysit Sophie. I rolled out of bed and hustled to get ready because I was already running late. And that’s when I opened my closet doors and froze.
Sophie’s bedroom is overrun by stuffed animals. At last count, approximately 95 inanimate creatures graced her bed, her floor and her shelves. When Sophie goes to sleep, she scrunches herself into a ball so she can fit into a corner on her bed. She doesn’t want to disturb the furry friends that surround her.
My brother and I are 2 1/2 years apart. I’m the oldest. I’ve always been the most serious. The worrier. The good kid who never got into any trouble. The thinks-too-much-about-everything sister. My brother has always been the happy-go-lucky sibling. The most relaxed. The kid everyone liked. The kid who did a lot of dumb things but somehow rarely got caught.
I suppose, then, it’s no surprise that he eventually ended up in laid-back Austin and I ended up living a few miles from eternally amped-up New York City. Our personalities match the places we call home.
I’ve taken a leap into the abyss. And it’s terrifying and exhilarating and a bit insane. I am a writer. I need to remind myself of this fact several times a day, but it’s my new mantra. “I am a writer.” “I am a writer.” “I am a writer.”
I’ve gradually become more comfortable telling people I’m a writer when they ask me what I do. I’ve progressed to the point where I can even say it with a straight face.
Our family had a lovely summer. We traveled, we took entertaining day trips, saw friends and spent quality time with relatives. You’d think it would have been hard to leave August in the rearview mirror. But was I mournful when the clock struck 12:01 am on September 1?
Sophie celebrates her ninth birthday tomorrow. To mark the occasion, it would be easy to spew out the usual platitudes about her annual milestone – how I love her, how she enriches our life, how she’s metamorphosing before our very eyes.
Instead, I’ve spent the past couple of days contemplating how refreshing it is that, in Sophie’s world, nine is simply nine. Sophie is still very much a child, you see. In her mannerisms, in her speaking, in her hobbies, in her unpredictable mood swings. Unlike Chloe at nine, Sophie isn’t yet too jaded or too mature for her own good.
I came to this realization the other day when I was combing through the photos I took during our recent travels to England and France. It turns out I’ve amassed an eclectic collection of gargoyle portraits . I think the old art history major in me – the one who was obsessed with medieval art and architecture – is feeling nostalgic.
I am creating a monster, methinks. Actually, I’ve already created a monster. I have successfully managed – for the 252nd time this year – to turn Chloe into a stressed-out teenager. The reason for this particular episode of stress: her indecision about participating in a team sport this fall and my insistence that she make a decision already, for crying out loud!
Our family loves to travel. Everyone except Sophie, that is. For her, the ideal voyage is the trip from her bedroom to the kitchen downstairs. I, on the other hand, live for travel. In fact, I believe I suffer a moderate to severe case of travel addiction. As soon as we return from a vacation, I feel an uncontrollable urge to plan the next one. It sometimes feels like an illness.
I know Chloe and Sophie love me. Yet my girls are no different from the millions of other kids around the world who treat their parents like chopped liver.
I’m Mom. My devotion to my daughters’ well-being sometimes feels all-consuming. I’m laser-focused on their happiness (except when I’m not). In case the girls ever harbor any doubts about my love for them, the following list should allay their concerns about where my loyalty lies.
