XX Times Two

I love being a woman, and I think women are amazing. However, they can also be tedious, passive-aggressive and taxing. So it is always with a degree of trepidation that I participate in "girls nights" or "ladies only" events. I need a compelling reason to join, a true commonality to the group. Just being women, of roughly the same age, living in the same city, working in the same field, doesn't cut the mustard anymore.

This week, I reconnected with some former coworkers, many of whom I hadn't seen in months. The email conversation leading up to dinner had me laughing out loud all week, and dinner itself was so fun that I completely lost track of time. I found myself emailing the group the next day to suggest another get-together.

(I think I got stuck planning that one.)

Also this week, I received an invitation to dinner with another group of former coworkers. This group has gotten together on a more regular basis over the past year, and every outing has felt - to some degree - forced or awkward. The ice never really seemed to break. I felt so relieved when I realized I will be out of town when they meet next week.

Finding time for the former group of women will be a priority for me in the near future. Our conversations lately have been effortless, funny and open, full of joy and empathy for the highs and lows we are individually experiencing. Making time for the latter group will be a low priority, if I decide to see them at all.

Am I replacing one with another? Possibly. But if my short life has taught me anything, it is that a large group of enjoyable women friends is hard to come by, and I should leap at the chance to keep such fabulous ladies in my life.

Ill Communication

The gravitational center of my life seems to shift when my daughter is sick. While she is always important - arguably most important - to my days and nights, her illnesses are crisis response drills and moments when everything else in the world seems to freeze.

Logistics are a nightmare when my daughter has a fever, gets an intestinal virus or - in this case - has a wicked case of bacterial conjunctivitis (pink eye). In a flurry of decision making, my husband and I are online, examining our schedules for the coming day and determining how we can care for our baby while she can't go to her day care center. We are both blessed with flexible, family-friendly workplaces close to our home, so our solutions are usually a cobbling of sick leave, working from home and splitting sick-duty into shifts.

Of course, far worse than the logistics is the actual illness. It is so heartbreaking to see my baby in pain and uncomfortable, feverish and listless, vomiting everything she consumes or oozing gunk from her swollen and bloodshot eyes.

I want to hold her forever. I become frustrated with my body for being uncomfortable while trying to sleep in the rocking chair at 2 am as she clings to me, sitting in my lap. I am ready to sacrifice my expensive clothes, now covered in vomit, to God if he will accept them as an offering to end my daughter's discomfort.

In the end, all I can offer is Infant Tylenol and lots of hugs. I think that is enough to my daughter, and if I can make her world a little better while she is sick, the rest of it doesn't seem to matter.

Layers and Cake

Twenty-eight years old this morning, I was born. I don't think I ever fully appreciated how dramatically I must have turned by mother's world upside down until I had a baby of my own.

Having my own baby has really opened a whole new dimension of my own family relationships. I look at my daughter and realize the depth of love my own mother has for me.

(This of course makes me feel terrible for all the rotten things I said and did as a teenager.)

I also wonder what profound changes I had to have wrought on my mother's life. Was I a great financial burden? Did I strain an already weakening marriage? Was I an anchor of happiness for my mom during this difficult time? Did I help her see her relationship with her own mother on a new level?

When I see pictures of my mom with me as a baby, she looks genuinely happy. Perhaps she was secretly delighted because I turned out to be a girl when everyone thought I was a boy.

Anyway, I don't mean to be melancholy, but my birthday is causing me to remember my daughter's birth, ruminate on the sea changes it brought about in my life and wonder my own birth must have been like. I think I made my mom as happy as my daughter has made me. And that's no small feat!

Happy birthday to me, indeed!

Time in Sing-Sing

Since my daughter was born, I have been constantly paring back my commitments. Any involvement that requires a reoccurrence on my calendar has been scrutinized - and frequently eliminated. No single club or group has been particularly offensive, but reviewed as a body, my commitments were overwhelming.

One group I have not forsaken is my church choir. I did take a leave of absence for a few months after my daughter's arrival, and the entire choir was given two months off over the summer as usual.

Tonight was our first rehearsal since the summer break. It felt great to sing again.

(Of course, I sing all the time, but "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad" isn't as challenging as SATB.)

I had been sort of dreading the two hours blocked out this evening; I could practically hear the sucking sound as that precious time disappeared from my life, never to be seen again. But I left rehearsal feeling refreshed and invigorated, my musical sensibilities charged up and energized.

It seems like I need to rethink my strategy on standing commitments. A few well-spent hours might actually help me feel like I'm doing more with the time that I have.

That's music to my ears!

Tired of being tired

I should not be so bleary-eyed.

My job has not been especially demanding this week, my entire family is healthy (for now) and my evening commitments have been few and far between. Yet, each day this week has entailed repeatedly hitting the snooze button, drinking far more coffee than can be healthy for me and generally feeling fuzzy and sluggish.

I seem to be unable to put myself to bed at a reasonable hour. Where is my mother when I need her?

(Who am I kidding? My mother had a terrible time getting me to do anything; I was such a stubborn pain the ass growing up.)

A victim of my own standards for a rich and varied life, I can't seem to give anything up in the name of sleep. The brief span of time between my daughter's bedtime and my own is my only opportunity to unwind, further my interests, develop hobbies, etc. I wish I could say that time was spent composing music or learning Spanish. The truth is, I seem to spend the vast majority of prime time reading magazines and popular fiction, watching TV, surfing the Internet and puttering around the house.

I can't decide whether I am just too stubborn to admit that "having it all" is a big lie or whether I lack the discipline to cut out activities that don't contribute much to my overall happiness. Perhaps another cup of Joe will give me the energy to figure it out.