February 10, 2011
It’s a frigid Monday night in central Jersey, and the staccato crunch of heels on crusted pavement is keeping time with my racing heart as I power-walk to my intended destination. I’ve managed to escape the dinner hour to return “home” for a meal with two dear friends, and frankly I don’t want to miss a minute of it. I literally had to peel Zachary off my body as he begged me to “please stay, DON’T GO ON VACATION!!”, knowing full well that telling him mommy only visits the scene of her childhood approximately four times a year will carry no weight with him at this moment.
Through the wonders of that 80’s channel on Sirius radio, I’ve managed to shed the images of the resulting carnage I left behind for Jeff and the sitter (Zach melted into a puddle in the foyer, Justin comprehending my departure and making a dash for the door to reign me in). After forty-five minutes of driving I’m finally happy, and as I make my way down streets whose highlights used to be a five-and-dime and a record store, and are now redolent with chichi restaurants and high-end couture, I’m committed to remaining that way for the rest of the evening.
As God is my witness, I will have fun for two consecutive hours even if it kills me.
Soon after Jeff and I relocated to Jersey after our fifteen year stint in Washington, DC, I threw a rather small “social net” out to women whom I’d run into at our last reunion who’d remained in the area, women I had been friends with, or just liked. I kept our dinner small because I live the better part of an hour away, and as getting to the ATM on some days has been a struggle, I knew I’d have limited opportunities for socializing. So, one cold winter evening I co-hosted a night out at a local bistro with a dear friend, and waited to see which relationships would be reconnected. Our dinner guests were, and remain, lovely people, and a number have become email “pals”, or the occasional lunch date since that time. One of those women I’m dining with tonight, was someone I was close to in my youth but had lost touch with after graduation, and it’s been a joy to reforge that bond with this wonderful “girl” as we catch up on the last twenty-plus(!) years we’ve been apart.
My other dining companion from that long-ago meal I’ve known since we were fourteen, when the dark blonde braids of her hair graced my desk in English class, and we desperately tried not to get caught passing notes (remember note-passing?) as we debated the merits of one boy or another. She remains strong, smart and beautiful, and best yet shares my somewhat unique world view and sense of humor. I knew within months of meeting her we’d be friends for life. This girl would eventually be a bridesmaid.
And fifteen years later, she was.
I reach the cozy restaurant that has become “our spot”, exchange hugs, shed coat and gloves, and gratefully slide into my seat. It’s been a few months since our last communal repast, and we have to discipline one another to cut the chatter long enough to order since we’re all starving. One friend has just had a baby, and we pause in our not-so-worldly discussions long enough to pay due to her little girl’s beauty, then settle in for bread and the wine she always (thankfully!) remembers to bring to this non-licensed establishment. We quickly fall into a rhythm, conveying moments from our lives punctuated by the light laughter of friends who know one another well. We discuss our children, our spouses, our favorite reality tv shows, and even make a brief foray into world affairs (I’m so proud of us). It is a safe place for we three women, this venue where we can share our lives, laugh at the absurdities, and best of all, trust that none of it will ever leave the table.
It is sanctuary.
All too soon the evening concludes, as the weight of laundry, husbands and child care summons us back to reality, and I find myself embracing my companions goodbye, with the promise of another evening to come in the not too distant future. I settle myself in for the fairly long drive home, and smile at the fact that I’ve indeed escaped the daily confines of my life for just a moment, have had a meal served and cleaned up for me, enjoyed the pleasure of discourse involving multi-syllabic words. I’m reminded how imperative it is to have these evenings, to walk out of my life for just a little while. No matter what is going on at home, it’s still important for me to have some fun.
As a great “Wham” song reverberates around my car (are there any bad “Wham” songs, really?) and I make passage to the Garden State Parkway, I am reminded of several wonderful posts I’d read recently from two of my favorite bloggers, a diary of a mom and Professor Mother Blog, who recently made impassioned pleas for all of us to address our emotional needs, to seek the help we might require as we dance through the difficulties of raising “different” kids. The essays were exceptionally written and translated to all women, both those encumbered with the blessing and burden of “labeled” children, and those without. I personally forwarded them on to a few friends, none of whom happen to reside with autistic offspring. They were timeless, important pieces, and I hope you have the chance to read them for yourselves.
Their words transported me back to a time when I was mired in the mess of it all, the year leading up to Justin’s diagnosis, and the one following Zachary’s. The days where despondence seemed our family’s version of “normal”, where the act of reaching out for comfort or solace was almost harder than simply embracing the depression. I eventually did seek help both times, through several parent support groups, via the purge that was writing my manuscript, and the relief of discussing our day-to-day travails with friends experiencing our version of family. I finally received what I needed, but first had to claw my way to a place where I had the energy to do the work necessary to once again render me happy, to even want to do the work to return to that place. For a time, I was shattered. I knew, in order to be the mom my children needed, I’d have to summon the energy to refashion the pieces of my life into some semblance of a cohesive whole, albeit a changed one.
And after a time, I did.
I’ve learned to live in that reconfigured world, where most days seem filled with light rather than shrouded in darkness. I dwelled in that post-apocalyptic place for a while however before I realized something pivotal remained absent, some core part of me still denied. Eventually, although it took a while, I figured it out.
Girlfriend needed to have some fun.
And although I couldn’t see it at the time, that desire for frivolity is the equally important twin to seeking solace, the codicil to regaining that precious mental health. I started out slowly. At first it was a phone call here or there, then a short lunch. Sometimes it was simply a trip to the book store, a frappacino as my silent guest, the wanton escape of a well-written novel in my tired hands. In DC I eventually reestablished connections I’d let falter, and here in Jersey I’ve forged new friendships, created a new kind of life including forays, although brief, into fun. The truth is, no matter what our kids are going through, no matter what issues are transpiring in our homes, one thing is certain. This is the only life you’re going to have. Carve something pleasurable, no matter how small at first, or how difficult it is to do, back into yours, for you.
When you’re ready, and you’ll know when, just try to have some fun.