I’ve been feeling unsettled lately for two very specific reasons.
First, because in a week’s time, Olive will be flying across the country to stay with her dad. He moved to Ontario at the beginning of April, and our custody arrangement has changed significantly as a result. We are still working out what will work best for Olive, but the likeliest outcome is that Olive will live with me for the majority of the year and for a portion of the summer, when time off school permits longer visits, Olive will spend time in Ontario.
I have a lot of feelings about this. Part of me is desperate for a break and part of me is excited that she’s going to spend time with her dad and part of me is deeply, deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation because she’s going for seven weeks. Seven weeks.
Stripping Off by Julia Blackshaw Art on Etsy
You know when you think you know something? You know this thing so well, in fact, that you don’t even think about it anymore, it’s just an accepted part of your worldview. The sky is blue. Olive never stops talking. E=MC2. These are just facts! Generally accepted truths!
Well, this afternoon one of my own personal truths shattered and I am still reeling from the aftershock.
In case it wasn’t obvious already, this story is about boobs.
This post has not been sponsored in any way.
Just over a year ago I snowshoed up a mountain.
In some ways, it was a triumph because I didn’t die and now I get to say things like “I snowshoed up a mountain”. In other ways, it was a really sobering experience. As soon as we started the ascent, it became painfully obvious that I had virtually no cardiovascular endurance. The lack of thigh muscles definitely made the trek upward more difficult than it needed to be, but the main issue was that I needed to stop every few minutes to catch my breath.
To put it bluntly, it was embarrassing.
My mom babysat Olive last night and when I came home my house was spotless. The dishwasher was quietly humming, Olive’s toys were stacked neatly in her toybox. My dining room table was clear. My bed was made.
The sweetest things are always, always the smallest things.
When I drop Olive off at school I wait by the playground fence as she lines up with her classmates. She runs back three or four times for another hug, another kiss, another “I love you”. When her class begins to slowly file inside she interrupts her excited chattering every few seconds to look back and wave, “Bye mummy!” she cries, “Bye mummy!”.
I miss writing about motherhood.
[At the bottom of this post I’ve included a song that was playing when I wrote it. I like to include this sort of thing because I love the synchronicity of you listening to the same song while reading. It’s like you’re here with me!]
Reticent, by Philip Kanwischer
One thing about life that always makes me feel good is that no matter how much my life changes (and good lord, it has changed a lot in the past few years), there are a few essential components that remain the same. Some are very small things like mass quantities of cheese, scalding hot baths, and books piling up on bedside tables. Others are much bigger.
Of the larger constants, one of the most vital (especially recently) has been a search for meaning. It’s a slightly eye-roll-y phrase, but seriously it’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? We’re all constructing a life for ourselves, consciously or unconsciously. We choose jobs, places to live, partners, and things to fill our days. We are constantly standing in front of forks in the road – large and small – and being asked to pick a direction.
Making these choices is one of most exhilarating things we are asked to do. It can also be slightly terrifying because after you make a choice you have to live with it. Sometimes forever.