Perspective*

Yesterday after my desperate post a friend called me to say, “no, you’re not a bad mother. Now go to your meeting and listen to some Indigo Girls on the way.”

So I did. I had to attend a membership meeting of the PGA (well, I didn’t HAVE to, but I WANTED to, to feel like a person again, to mix with my peers, to make sure people don’t forget about me entirely). I even went to the mall and bought a slew of new tops that would accommodate my new boobs and not make me feel like a shlumpy housewife out on the town. I showed my chosen outfit to my husband, and asked him if I looked “too booby.” He said, “how can anyone look TOO booby?”

Amazingly, traffic wasn’t bad, and I cruised through Socal with the Indigo Girls pumped high, singing along. Usually, if I’m alone in the car I take the time to return phone calls, and I reached for my phone, but something told me I needed to keep singing.

So I did. I sang along to most of the album “All That We Let In.” The happy songs and the sad ones. It was great, and cleansing, and I felt better. When I got home 4 hours later, Stewart was standing in the middle of the living room, rocking the baby and watching “American Chopper” at full volume. He turned to me, purple lips and all, and said it took a whole bottle of wine to get him through the night.

Amen, brother. Welcome to my world.

*Many of you may remember that two years ago on this date, I discovered the body of a very dear friend. The event rocked my world and sent me to counseling. That was a very bad day. Any other day in my life has been a much better day than that day. I put this story into a footnote because I didn’t want it to be a main subject. It is ALL much better than that day.