Today is one of those days. I get dressed in thirty seconds, don’t brush my hair, don’t even look at myself in the mirror. Tooth brushing? Ha! When I see myself in the hall mirror as I walk out, I notice my shirt is kind of small and not very flattering—not how I remembered this shirt fitting…Oh yeah, I had a baby four months ago and it shows. How could I have believed that I actually looked good all this time? It was all smoke and mirrors, strategic angles, calculated fits and colors. But THIS is the truth, this ugliness right here.
But there’s no time to change shirts. I need to get out of the house before all hell breaks loose, before the toddler I just dressed becomes less and less ready every second, shedding socks and gray matter in a meteor shower around us. Get out before the baby starts screaming, red-faced and with beads of sweat on his forehead.
I didn’t get enough sleep.
There were nightmares more than once about bats named Melissa and cries of “Mama! Mama! Daddy! Daddy!”. And I had my own small mammal flapping his wings against my breasts and echolocating for milk in the nocturnal hours.
I can’t do all the toddler questions today.
Sometimes the questions are beautiful and amazing and I stand in awe. “Mommy, where is God’s house?” “Mommy, what’s a bear for?”
And sometimes for three days he is rehashing the same social scenario or event, and it feels like a slow, steady drip between my eyebrows, the kind used for torture. He remembers a dinner we had with friends two weeks ago. He starts the line of questioning: “Who was wearing the green hat? What his name? Where he went? That boy, who was he? What that rest-ront called?” On and on. And on. It would be charming if we hadn’t already had this exact conversation ten times. He remembers every hoodie worn, every face framed with glasses. He wants to go over the map of the table with me again. “Who was that on my left? Who was next to she? Who was next to Daddy?”
Lord, I don’t even have the energy to turn the question back on him and say, “What do you think?” anymore.
“No crying today, please,” I tell the baby.
On days like these (and every day it seems) there is grace. And privilege. (Don’t forget about privilege.) Today I can drop my toddler off at Parents’ Day Out so I can have a reset.
“You think it’s going to rain?” his teacher asks me when I drop him off, seeing that I’m wearing a raincoat. “Um, I only put the coat on because I looked too fat,” I want to say. And, lady, you want me to predict the weather? I don’t even know what’s going to come out of my mouth next, let alone the sky.
I need a coffee.
Of course I could make a pot at home. But no, you’re not listening, I need a coffee that reminds me there is a world out there. I need the kind with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle to remember the sweetness. I am way beyond worrying what my coffee order makes me look like to the world. There were whole stages of life when I insisted on drinking black coffee because I thought it was cool to not need the creamy sweeteners and the fluff. Give it to me hard, real, pure. Me, too sensitive? No way, man, I drink black coffee. Dark roast.
Nope, not anymore. I’ll take the softness everywhere I want it and can get it. Give me the damn cherry mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. I know the truth of my heart. I’m sensitive, and I love it. I’m sensitive, and I’m strong as hell.
World, dazzle me today.
Sweep me off my feet. Tell me a story that begins with “Once upon a time”. Send me the unicorns and the fairies. Tell me I’m radiant and I won’t say you’re lying. I’ll believe you. I won’t fight it. I will grab any thread of wonder, jump to catch the kite string floating over my head. Push a toy boat my way, and I will climb aboard. I am so ready to believe that this life is beautiful. Leave me a couple breadcrumbs, and I’ll sniff my way there.
I’m so happy to hear the voice of the Starbucks drive-thru man. He sounds as cheery as Buddy the Elf, and he probably drank maple syrup for breakfast. After I order, he says, “We’ll see you at the window!” and I can’t help but smile already. When I pull up to the window, he cranes his head out and says, “Oh, look, the sun’s coming out!” “Oh wow, it is!” I exclaim, looking up. Aren’t I lucky to live in a world where drive-thru cashiers talk to me about sunshine?
And then the clouds part.
I realize that in my life today, I am usually only one coffee, two songs, and a twenty-minute drive out of despair. I reach the end of my rope, and then, like a magician, yardage after yardage springs forth from my hand. Rainbow colored. And it’s not over there in a fantasy adventure, it’s in this life, where my baby’s eyes are more beautiful than any jeweled treasure I’ve ever seen. Where his smiles make me believe not in unicorns but in the ordinary iridescence of flesh, human flesh.
And I–even I–shimmer.
…
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