Saskia’s birthday is next weekend, and I’m reminded of that parenting truism—well, child truism—that sometimes just before the birthday, it seems like the child changes, almost in front of your eyes with big developmental leaps. In Saskia’s case, she’s pretending all the time. It’s like her pretend life has taken this new hold.
I know that as a parent, three—perhaps for this reason, the child’s world expanded anew—has been, with each other kid, a time when I have felt as if I can refocus upon myself a bit. Up every two hours history, choke hazard fears subsided, the teetering Frankenstein phase replaced by dancing around the living room, and me? I am thinking yes, I can see a friend or go to a party or tackle some new work projects. It’s so thrilling to rediscover that sense of adult life—and to be out sometimes after dark, without any kids (and attendant anxiety over returning for bedtime ASAP).
Not at all surprising then that I wandered—somewhat by accident—into a Bikram Yoga class over the winter holiday break. I feared the heat. I am quite sure that I will always tune out a lot of the script, namely, do this until it hurts. I admit that the combination of a rug and all that sweat isn’t exactly entirely pleasant. But sweaty happens and to my amazement, I am sort of enjoying the process of feeling my muscles challenged and releasing and even of being so very, very hot. Plus, I feel very good afterwards. So, I made a little five-class commitment and realize that for now, I’m enjoying this new thing. I also have been to my friend John’s most excellent stability ball class. Hello, ball I am falling off inelegantly and hello jump rope I was never good at using and hello sore muscles the day after. Hello scheduling a regular thing for myself.
The process of learning something new is always a really good reminder that life is not solely about mastery, it’s about navigation.
This kind of reminder is great when you have your very last turning-three year-old in the house plus a teen—never parented a high school student before—and a second tweenager: there are so many, many things none of us know well or are comfortable with and there are so many feelings—and for the three year-old imaginative leaps—to experience. We have some days when all that jumbles together like spaghetti clumping in a pot instead of cooking perfectly al dente and strand-by-strand.
The more I put myself out in my own world—on a stability ball, yoga mat, or in front of new editors, same thing—I am going to find moments of wow, cool and moments of oh, crap. My dear husband learned to ski in his thirties and he can back me up: to reach for the new is humbling and completely exhilarating. My kids, as they grow, are going to make their own discoveries, both pleasant and uncomfortable. Collectively, we’re going to botch batches and batches of spaghetti.
Some days, you don’t have to think about this and other days, you can’t help but be reminded.
Oh—and there is snow, still, even with a little melt yesterday, lots and lots of snow. The eight year-old (his parents so totally savoring latency) is pretty much ever eager to clear it away.
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