Ali and I are both firm believers in “It takes a village.” We’re lucky in that we have supportive families and friends and, of course, each other. However, I’ll be the first to admit that I lost friends after becoming a mother. My priorities changed, and if the friend didn’t have children, she and I seemed to speak a different language. I was exhausted, and the very last thing I wanted to do at the end of the day was get ready to go out somewhere. Eventually, I turned down enough invitations that I just wasn’t invited anymore. In my mind, that was okay though. How could I talk to someone who didn’t have children, didn’t understand? Now I know that my justification was simply ridiculous.
Posts by Lesley Bolton:
I’m not always sentimental about things. I couldn’t wait to get rid of Story’s bassinet and baby clothes. Most of her artwork has found its way to the recycle bin. And when I’m in purge mode, nothing is safe. However, I have a very strong attachment to one particular piece of furniture: the recliner.
Family is fabulous. Friends are fabulous. Fairy gardens are fabulous. So how could my fortieth birthday party be anything less than fabulous? Well, there was the fact that I waited waaaay too long to secure a caterer and a cake (much to Ali’s ire, which, I’m not ashamed to say, brought me a bit of glee). My house wasn’t in shape at all to receive guests the day before. Oh, and I had given up on the outside long before. Anyone daring to come through the front door was at the mercy of overgrown shrubs. There was a 100% chance of rain. And I had a difficult time finding just the right things for the make-your-own-fairy-garden party favors.
Sometime back, I mentioned that Story wanted to be and in her mind effectively became goth. Well, that experiment lasted only a couple of weeks. She had the solitude and black clothes down pat. The not-talking part is what got her. She’d be gabbing away happily, as usual, and then realize she was supposed to be in character. Immediately, she’d shut her mouth, look sullen, and sulk off. She was not happy. The lack of chatter was a bit jarring for me, but a bit refreshing in a way if I’m honest. With that identity out the window, she hunted for a new one. She was Australian for a while, which merged back into her comfortable British, and there she stayed for quite a while. I thought that was the end of the search. Until a few weeks ago.
So I may be cheating a bit in that this post isn’t about my kid. But you guys, I really need to vent. Story’s dog – term used loosely – is going to give me an aneurysm. The Little Shit, as she is not at all affectionately called when Story is gone, or Kahlea, as she is called when Story is home, is so vexing her cuteness cannot make up for it. Let me give you a few examples.