I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating itself off the bookshelf near my head. As it fell to the floor I sat up quickly and squinted my eyes to see 5:32 in a blurry green glow from the clock. My baby was babbling to himself across the room and I was reminded that I was a mom, three times over. The countdown to breakfast time had begun. The kids are predictable, they wake up hungry. My husband entertains with play-dough as I scramble the eggs rambling about my evening out last night. Out, as in, sitting around a table with other writers discussing our protagonists biggest misbelief in life. Their fatal flaw, which is a bit harsh, but still accurate.
There is a part of me that comes alive on my night out. I feel intoxicated with the conversation. I leave buzzing. I am a part of a community who share an unspoken appreciation of the art, craft, and process of this field. We over analyze Slaughterhouse Five, and laugh at dirty flamingo’s.
I grabbed carry out on the way home to share with my husband. The scent of pork pot stickers filled the car as I drove home. I was eager to share about my evening, my whole heart, wholeheartedly.
“I think I’m becoming a woman” I told him.
You see, I have this belief, perhaps it’s my misbelief, that I’m stuck in an adolescent world.
It’s easy to make choices that keep life stagnant. Stagnant may not appear a bad choice, it’s comfortable because there is little motion. It’s predictable, smooth, but does lead to an unpleasant smell before long.
My husband and I, we have a saying we use when we make choices that are good for us, like, going to the doctor for yearly check-ups, or choosing to not order pizza and eat leftovers instead. We are being big girls/boys. We’re growing up. We’re looking out for future “us”.
Becoming a woman is a tough job. I thought I had already accomplished this task June 12th in 1996 at 1:06 pm, when I started my period. I sobbed each month, wishing I could go back in time. With time, I got over it, grudgingly. Then, after having one child, then two, then three – surely, I was now a woman.
Making big girl choices, I think that this, now, is my transition.
Making big girl choices will punch my misbelief in the face. It will die.
So it goes…
I gathered junk from my past, filled plastic bags (that are bad for the earth), loaded them into my trunk, and gave away my adolescence. I’m wearing my big girl pants from here on out. (this is metaphorical… mostly)
Conversations intoxicate. I’m grateful that the written word stirs my spirit, keeps my heart buzzing, and is pushing me into adulthood.
Here I come, you beast.