Water, food, shelter … and a sense of belonging. Basic human needs. We belong to our families, to our schools, to our neighborhoods, and to our work. And if we are really fortunate, we belong to a group that is special and unique – friends. Real friends, not just people you call friends for lack of a better word, knowing that they’ll judge you if a fart slips out in front of them.
I tell Harper all the time that she is lucky to be a girl. She gets to wear skirts and pants if she wants, gets to decide if she’s going to be a mother some day or not, gets to own specific and wonderful names including sister and daughter.
Women are amazing. They are almost always stronger than they appear, along with being wise and empathetic.
I have spent the last couple of days simultaneously enjoying the last fleeting hours of summer while also hanging them up and getting ready for real life again. I get excited for new years to begin, it’s true. I look forward to the routine of life, to watching my kids learn new things and love new teachers, to feeling good about a lesson I taught or a meaningful conversation I had with a student, to have a schedule (which is both rigid and comfortable all in one).
But, I am also scared. In the summer, I get to be the mom I want to be. My energy is devoted to my family. I get to exercise every day. I get to go on dates with my husband. Well, not really. (In May, I wrote down that I would have a date with my hubby twice a month this summer.)
#summergoalsnotmet
When life resumes in August, I feel wobbly. The health and happiness that summer blissfully gives begin to fade. The scale is tipped and there are choices to make: be a great teacher OR be a present and wonderful mom, exercise OR lesson plan, talk to your husband OR clean the kitchen, pick up your children early OR feel guilty that you stayed to work.
No one understands the tug of life more than women. I am convinced of a few things: men need us and their family, and they are pretty much good to go. Children need us and their family, and they are pretty much good to go. We need each other.
Surely you have lots of women in your life, some more embedded than others. In mine, it goes something like this:
The neighborhood gals. These are the ones I make small talk with as my kids play or as I run into them in the front lobby of school. Our lives overlap, and I am grateful when they offer to watch the littles while I run back inside to pee. Or maybe not really to go potty but instead to grab a handful of chocolate. Many of these women stay home with their kids. I tell them, and I mean it, that they have the hardest jobs in the world. They are also cut out for it. While Harper and Jameson sing along to the latest hip hop song with me in the car, these ladies remind me that KidsBop might be more appropriate. I grow from them. I appreciate them. Life in the neighborhood would certainly be quieter and lonelier without them.
Now, for my imaginary friends. I’m sure you have these, too, right? Mine include Michelle Obama and Ina Garten, just to name a couple. I dream of being Michelle’s right-hand gal, her assistant to all things personal and professional. I am that important. I also dream of sitting in Ina’s Hamptons mansion over a cup of tea and gorging myself with her blondies and hand pies while doing that east coast, slightly haughty chuckle as I listen to her anecdotes about food and travel. Seriously, though. Michelle and Ina? Powerhouses.
In reality, when I need the perfect woman, I call my mom. I know we are not supposed to “be friends” with our kids … yet. But there comes a certain age when your mom not only maintains her momness, but also blossoms into the most wonderful, judgment-free, best friend ever. I know not everyone is fortunate enough to have that kind of mom, or any mom for that matter, and for this I am deeply saddened. My gratitude broadens each time I share a hard time or a new memory with mine.
There are also the women who have had a profound impact on me sometime in my life, in a past chapter. They are still out there in the world, killing it. They have absolutely no idea what the minutiae of my everyday life is like, but their presence in the universe gives me a quiet comfort, their memories like a salve.
Finally, there are the nitty-gritty friends. The real deal. The women who know that I silently call my child a butthead (or, get real, something worse), and rather than expressing concern about my parenting will say, “If it makes you feel better, I almost sold my daughter to a street vendor last week.” These are the women to glug wine with while wearing yoga pants.
A few nights ago, I shared a wine-night with some nitty-gritty friends. A photo might have captured four tired and slightly messy women. But it wouldn’t capture the intelligence and education each of us possess. It wouldn’t show the strength of our motherhood. It wouldn’t show us getting up to care for a family or thriving in our careers.
The nitty-gritty friends are the ones who fill up your bucket when your confidence wavers a bit, when your scale tips a little too far in one direction and you need some centering. They won’t judge if you pee yourself when you laugh too hard. If life (or the wine) makes you feel wobbly, they put you back on solid ground.
Women are amazing.
I wish you an abundance of women to interact with, observe, and look up to.
And I wish you few truly special ones to get real with.
