I had a moment yesterday . . . a moment of clarity, perhaps, or of self-pity, or maybe just really being "in the moment" and realizing how absurd that moment was:
1:30 p.m., in my sketchy cement basement, using an actual pliers to turn the dial of my 20-year-old washing machine because the handle broke off in the morning, wearing a shirt that smelled like puke (because Jemma choked on a Teddy Graham and threw up a little milk and peaches at lunch) and the same yoga pants I'd been wearing since 3:30 the previous afternoon and had been run in TWICE, unshowered (but this goes without saying, doesn't it?), explaining to my sister-in-law's answering machine why HFM disease only SOUNDS horrible and scary, surrounded by more un-washed laundry and boxes upon boxes of "bargains" from Costco.
This, I thought, is what my life has come to. This, on the day Jason and I planned to celebrate our anniversary with a lovely, grown-up dinner. This, I guess, is what marriage looks like 9 years in: a little messier, less pretty than the wedding day by far, but infinitely so much more interesting. It's sort of like Cinderella, but backwards: first, the beautiful white wedding; next, the years of housework and wearing a lot of brown.
And instead of feeling sorry for myself, I (luckily? peversely?) felt OK about the chaos of it all. The laundry, the semi-sick kid, the giant boxes of Goldfish crackers, the need to ready myself for a dinner out . . . it all just means that I have an abundance of kids and food and clothes and family and health (I use the term loosely, this week) in my life. And I'm strong enough, now, that I can take a situation like that, pull things together, and somehow manage to toast our 9th wedding anniversary with a cozy dinner at Louis Benton in clean clothes and makeup, with children sleeping safely at home. Keeping the magic alive, a little bit.
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