We’ve all got our blankets about something.

“It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s the place in between that we fear….It’s like being between trapezes.  It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer.  There’s nothing to hold on to”.  –Marilyn Ferguson

 

Maya sat cross-legged across from me, on my proverbial “Therapist Couch”, and fiddled with the long, dark hairs on her leg.  “My cousin came over the other day and said, ‘Ew!  Why don’t you shave your legs?  That’s not very lady-like'”.

Shifting in my rocking chair, I stifled my contempt for her cousin and asked, “What did you say?”.

Maya shrugged her shoulders, “I just said, ‘Whatever.  I like it'”.  She ran the pads of her finger-tips up and down her shin.  She was 16 and looked more like a teenage boy than when I first met her.   I have watched Maya grow, incrementally, into the person she wants to be over the last year.  The changes she has made to her physical appearance, the questions she has asked, the decisions she has made.  I have had the honor of witnessing someone shed who they were told they were supposed to be, and slowly, (often painfully) begin to accept and become who they  have wanted to be.  Who they truly are.

But with each step forward in her accepting ourselves, there is always someone nearby who will not.

“But then”, Maya continued,”my cousin….she caught site of my boxers and said, ‘What the hell are you wearing boxers for?  You tryin’ to be a boy?'”.

I allowed myself the private, fleeting fantasy of me punching her cousin in the throat.    After my indulgence, I swiftly pushed the thought away and again shifted in my seat.  “It sounds like your cousin is a bit scared”.  Maya looked up at me, suspicious and confused.

“Of what?” she asked, “Me?”.

“Not you exactly.  But, maybe your courage to do what you want to do.   Your bravery to be who you want to be.  That’s scary to a lot of people because they’re too afraid to do it themselves”.

Maya and I had been meeting for just over a year.  She first came in with long, thick, hair down her back and a shy and quiet demeanor.  She had sought therapy because of her overwhelming anxiety.  Today, a year later, she wears her hair extremely short, often comes to my office on her skateboard or BMX bike, and fidgets on my couch.   She tells me about her classes and her family and her new skateboard tricks.  She also tells me about the how alone she feels.  And judged.  And scared.

Today, the more we talked, the more restless Maya became.  She would try to say something, but the words would stay lodged in her throat and she would give up and go quiet.  Or, she would contradict herself and then shake her head and say “never mind”.  She leaned forward on the couch and ran  shaky hands through her short hair, rocking back and forth a bit.  “I’m just.  I’m so confused.  I don’t know.  My mom says that I shouldn’t be worried about this stuff.  She makes comments about other people like me that I overhear.  Like my cousin”.

I didn’t know what to say.  I could have lectured her on how ignorant so many people are.  About how fearful they are and how it has nothing to do with her, but I didn’t.  I just sat there with her.  Sometimes it’s all you can do.

I noticed that Maya had stopped rocking and simply sat cross-legged on my ouch, her arms folded tightly across her chest and her head slightly bent down.  Her face had become red.  And her eyes were glistening.  I watched her avoid my gaze.  She seemed to be using all of her strength to hold something in.

“Figuring out who we are– growing into who we are truly supposed to be, can sometimes take a long time.  And sometimes it sucks to go through”.

On the heels of my comment, I watched her tears spill over the edges of her brown eyes.  Her shoulders lurched forward as she bent into herself and finally gave up trying to hold back the glacier that had been coming.  “But when will it stop?  When will I know?”.  And she cried.  And she covered her face with her hands and she cried, and my tiny room was filled with her exhausted voice.

“I think I know more about myself than I think I do”.

**********************************

A few months ago, my older son Silas and I were sitting in the truck outside of Bob’s Meat Market.  My husband and younger son had gone inside to get some things for grilling that night.   After a long week’s work, I’ll admit, I was surfing Facebook on my phone and zoning out when I heard my son from the backseat.

“Mom, is that a boy, or a girl?”.  I looked up from my phone, looked out the passenger-side window, and saw a person getting into their car just next to us, a paper bag full of things for grilling, just like we were.

“I don’t know honey.  I’m not sure”.  I looked back down at my phone.  Figuring out if someone was a man or woman is not high on my list of priorities.  I really don’t care as long as they are a decent human being.

Silas was silent for a few seconds, until he then explained to me, “I bet I know.  I bet that she was born a girl.  But then, I bet….I think maybe she was born a girl, but felt more like a boy on the inside.  I bet she felt more like a boy and so she wanted to start dressing more like a boy so that how she felt on the inside matched what she looked like”.

I again, looked up from my phone yet this time, much more engaged in what he was saying.  I smiled and touched the side of his face with my hand.   “I think you’re exactly right honey.  I’m so proud of you that you understand that”.  I had explained that reasoning to my boys on more than one occasion, but I honestly didn’t think they were really listening to me all that closely.  And then, just like that, just as if he and I had been talking about the weather, he asked the next question on his mind:

“What are asteroids made of?”.   We asked Siri, “What are asteroids made of?” and watched a YouTube video on it because really, what asteroids are made of is far more interesting.

 

linusLimnus

 

Two Red Maples

If the two red maples standing at attention on my front lawn could have talked, they probably would have bemoaned how annoying I was, always hanging around. I spent countless days lodged up in their branches for all kinds of reasons, but usually it was to be alone. What I loved most about them was how they offered me the privacy of being able to sit comfortably, and be hidden from view so that I could think about what I wanted to think about and daydream. I spent an inordinate amount of my time fantasizing and daydreaming, mostly about who I wanted to be instead of who I was, which lately, was a constant pressure cooker of emotions. I felt big, and I expressed big, and sometimes it was exhausting and embarrassing.

I was always so much more calm, cool, and collected in my daydreams, so much less emotional. I sometimes hated how sensitive I was and how intense all my feelings were. The hardest part was not always understanding what it was I was feeling. I could feel the tension rise between my parents by just one small gesture from my mother when she walked past him. I could sense the despair when my father’s favorite song came on the radio and he didn’t turn it up, or when my mother needed me to repeat something three times for her to actually hear me. Or, when one of my “friends” pointed out my blemishes on the school bus and said, “It’s like you’ve got a constellation all over your face.” All of these things—everything—pierced my heart like a spear and then simply sat in my gut, heavy.

In my fantasies, I was the unflappable girl who didn’t ever seem to get riled up by anything, unlike the real me who got riled up by everything. In some of my fantasies, I would tell off the older girls who rode by on their bikes and laughed at me and my sister. In others, I would walk by boys I liked and pretend like they weren’t even there. Or, sometimes, I would scream at my parents all of the things no one else was saying. I would sit up in those trees and wait for the day I could be like that, and the trees didn’t tell me it would never happen. They just blew in the breeze and held me in their sturdy arms.

They bore the initials that I would carve into their trunks, of me and whichever boy held my attention at the moment. It frequently changed. None of the boys ever knew I “liked” them, and as quickly as I fell into delirious love with them, I would just as quickly be over them and on to someone else. I felt a bit bad for the trees, to be honest, what with all the carvings into their sides I did, aside from the fact that it also made me look like a slut. I had dumped Jason only days after our roller skating date and I had no idea why.

The two trusty trees overheard the conversations Tami and I would have about Jennifer Stife and the eerie coincidences that, surely, were “a sign.” Of what, we hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I opened the Bible the other day and it opened right up to page 47!” she would whisper quickly to me.

“No way!” I would say, incredulous. “What did it say on the page?” We would try to decipher what Jennifer Stife may have possibly been trying to tell us from the grave through page 47 of The Bible. If that didn’t shed some light on the mystery, we would sometimes count to either 42 or 47, slowly and with anticipation, and then wait with bated breath to see if anything happened. Nothing ever did. If the maple tree in which we were perched could talk, it would have rolled its eyes and muttered, “Idiots.”

It lent its branches to me when I swung from them and tried to show off for Jacob, who came down the sidewalk on his bike. I wanted him to see how strong I was, and how limber, that I was able to climb the tree gracefully and without any grunting or difficulty, like boys did. Sometimes I would succeed and then watch him from the canopy of leaves to see if he noticed, but he always just rode by on his bike, oblivious to my grace. Other times I’d slip off and fall with a thud, at which point I would pretend I didn’t see him at all and skip away toward my house, unable to breathe, to show him I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.   In case he had been watching.

The big Red Maple also hid the awe and fear that Tami and I felt whenever the Hot Dog Man walked by. Neither Tami nor I knew from where the Hot Dog Man came, or where he was going on his walks. We only ever saw him pass by the maple trees on his way into town and on his way back. He stood about six feet tall and was huge and lumber some. Not fat- huge, but just big-boned burly-huge. And he was bald. We would sometimes see him coming a few blocks away. Sitting among the leaves chattering away like one of the birds, we’d quickly lower our voices to a barely perceptible whisper as he neared. He walked slowly and didn’t look at any of his surroundings as he passed. When he walked toward town, he was always empty-handed, but when he walked back to from wherever he came, he always had four hot dogs in his hand. No buns. Just cooked hot dogs, four in a row, and he held them like one would hold cards. Fanned out. He would bumble home and eat them just like that, fanned out in his hand, nibbling them from top to bottom. And we’d sit so perfectly still as we watched him walk by, eating his hot dogs that were fanned out in his hand. At first, I thought it was so weird that he ate his hot dogs like that, but then again, the way I ate my Pop-Tarts was kind of weird too. Maybe The Hot Dog Man and I had something in common. There was something about him that made me want to come down from the trees and say hello.

The real me never would. I was too scared, but the fantasy me did all the time, and I found that he was very nice.

I’d later heard, maybe from my mom or dad, that he lived in the halfway house a half-mile down the street on the other side. I didn’t know what a halfway house was, but I knew he lived there because he needed to, because something wasn’t quite right with him. Did he feel everything too much too? Did he wish he were different than he was? Did he feel anything at all? Every time I passed by that house afterward, I would stare at it through the backseat window and wonder what he was doing in there, if he was just sitting there, rocking in a rocking chair or eating hot dogs. Or, maybe he was hiding behind a curtain and looking right back at me from his bedroom window upstairs, like I watched him from the tree?

Sometimes, I would give him a weak smile and a friendly wave on my way by, just in case he was.

A short story for young girls about a boy named Jean-Guy (pronounced Jun-gee). He was french.

My favorite Karate Kid movie in the series was The Karate Kid Part II, where Daniel-san accompanies Mr. Miyagi to Okinawa to see his father who is “veddy sick.” While there, Daniel-san falls in love with the beautiful local girl named Kumiko who has long, gorgeous, flowing black hair (of course). After being taken hostage during her dance routine by the evil Chozen who was all, “You betrayed my honor,” Daniel-san has no choice but to fight him to the death. In true Karate Kid fashion, Daniel-san is able to dig deep and utilize a fancy move, winning him both the match and the girl.

But, my most favorite part of the Karate Kid II movie itself is when Kumiko invites Daniel-san to take part in the customary tea ceremony to signify that she had fallen in love with him. Unsure and nervous, Daniel-san loves and respects Kumiko so much he doesn’t want to mess up the special ceremony, turning the bowl nervously and looking to her for guidance. Finally, in the end, after she’s taken her cascading hair out of her bun and it falls all around her, he gently and lovingly kisses her from across the table, as romance is only romantic when the woman has long hair.

I would not have considered myself a romantic at the age of almost-ten, but boy oh boy, that scene sure did make me have butterflies, especially with Peter Cetera setting the tone in the background. I would go to bed and play “The Glory of Love” over and over, praying to God to send me someone like Daniel-san who would respect and honor me as much as he did Kumiko, and to declare his love for me.

But alas, God does indeed work in mysterious ways and chose, instead, to send over Jean-Guy.

It was the summer after the third grade and finally, my hair had grown out to an acceptable length; no one was calling me “Michael” or ditching me for candy bars anymore. I could put it up into a ponytail with the help of four or five barrettes (to reign in the shorter hairs), but it most certainly did not fall all around my shoulders when I took it out. Being summer time, my Swanton neighborhood was swarming with kids looking for fun. Mostly boys. So many boys. I had no choice but to constantly play sports all day long. It was the kind of neighborhood where kids would simply walk up and down the sidewalks or run across the street looking for each other. You knew who lived where, who had a decent backyard, whose parents were strict or not, and where everyone was (based on how many bicycles lay on the front lawn). I had a decent backyard that was surrounded by fence on all sides, and my parents were pretty laid back so we usually had a few bikes strewn around.

The boys who frequented my house the most were Travis, Tommy, Michael, Chris, and Eric. We would always start a game of soccer, baseball, hide-and-seek, tag, or dodgeball. I had everything we needed in the clubhouse that sat off of our garage, and we would play until dusk—until we could barely make out each other’s silhouettes running through the yard. In 1986, no one seemed worried about where their kids were, or getting West Nile Virus from mosquitoes, or getting poisoned by DEET in order to prevent West Nile Virus. Milling around my backyard trying to figure out teams, my little sister and her rat’s nest would sometimes come out and try to get in on the action. She would be giddy around all the boys, more interested in flirting with Michael or Chris than actually playing the game.

My mom and dad were always milling around the house on the weekends, raking or cleaning gutters, or vacuuming their cars. They weren’t really talking to each other today, but sometimes they did. Sometimes I would see them pass each other without so much as a glance, or I would come in from outside and feel their mutual silence meandering through the house—a stubborn silence. They would each talk to me or Erin, but not one another. Sometimes I’d hear them talking loudly and angrily inside, saying things like, “I’m just trying to make you happy!” or, “Nothing’s ever good enough!” and then they’d stop when I came in, and just not talk at all. I guess that was the best thing they could do when we were around. You can’t always pick and choose when to fight. So the tension was the same, just quieter, and I was glad to be busy outside.

Today, the game of choice was dodgeball, and Travis, Michael, and Eric were all here. They each made their way to my backyard from either next door or across the street, tossing their bikes to the grass as they jogged by my dad, hollering, ‘Hey Mr. Goodman’, or waving to my mom through the porch window. They didn’t see her slamming things around in there, or notice my father spend 45 minutes ferociously trying to fix the nozzle on the garden hose, but I did.

“Where’s Chris?” Michael asked, and Eric shrugged his shoulder.

“Not sure. I think he had to visit his aunt or something.”

Michael was the tallest of the three, with light hair, and he always had on an Adidas soccer shirt. Travis had a swath of thick, black hair, and was much shorter than Michael in addition to having one leg shorter than the other, which caused him to walk with a very slight limp. I thought it was kind of endearing. And Eric wore glasses and had auburn hair, but was still the most attractive of the three—maybe because he was the most polite and considerate to me. The three boys formed a small circle under our gigantic pine tree, assessing who was present and what should be our team formations. Sometimes, I felt less like one of the guys and more like the platform for which they could hang out. I was fine with either possibility.

I was on a team with Michael, so things were even—except when my sister would frolic over and sheepishly stare at the boys. Then we’d have to stop and tell her to get out of the way, although I noticed Eric would always lob the ball a lot less hard when she was around, which I thought was nice. After a good twenty minutes of us getting into our groove with the game, a kid from across the street came sauntering over. Jean-Guy. He wasn’t a regular at my house and didn’t really live in my neighborhood, but his grandmother did, and so we only ever really saw Jean-Guy when he was both visiting at his grandmother’s house and we were all home on the weekend.

A year or two older than me and most of my friends, Jean-Guy was around 12 or 13, which was a big difference in adolescence. He had an older brother, which made him privy to even more mature things, like cars and cigarettes and swear words. I saw him coming through the fence on the other side of my house (not the way everyone else came over), and I had a suspicious feeling that things would be a bit more interesting today. As his name suggests, he was a husky almost chubby kid, who seemed always to be clammy and perspiring, which was made worse considering we were in mid-July. He had a weird tooth in the front of his mouth that (only slightly) stuck out from all the others. He wore a gold chain around his neck that never moved because it seemed to always be stuck in his sweaty neck-crease.

“Hey,” he called to us from a few feet away. “Whatcha doin?”

Travis, the friendlier one of our bunch took the reins. “Dodge Ball. Wanna play?” He walked nearer to him, the ball resting on one of his hips. Jean-Guy was at least four or five inches taller than the other boys and eagerly took the ball from him.

“Yeah.”

Pointing to me and Travis, he declared, “You two can be on a team and I’ll be with Michael.” The dynamic had shifted quickly, with Jean-Guy calling the shots and the rest of us obeying. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Travis jogged over to me and we immediately took our dodgeball stances, ready for anything.

For some unknown reason, Jean-Guy thought he was The Man. He had a conceited strut about him that I can only deduce he got from having an older brother around. We never actually met his older brother, but he talked about him a lot, and from the sounds of it, I’m glad he didn’t come around because he sounded scary. He was old enough to drive and get into fights, and Jean-Guy told us all about those things with great pride, so I guess it was Conceit by Association.

Mid-way through our now lackluster game of dodgeball, Jean-Guy the Stud whispered something to Michael, who looked visibly put out and came jogging over to Travis and me, ball in hand.

“Jean-Guy wants to know if you wanna be girlfriend-boyfriend,” he spit out quickly, probably hoping this intermission would soon be over. He rested the ball on his hip again and looked at me sideways, waiting. Standing there impatiently waiting for an answer so that we might more quickly resume playing, I felt pressured to answer. Throwing the ball up and catching it back in my hands I pondered for several seconds. Jean-Guy stood fifty feet away, legs spread, hands on his knees, staring in my direction, and waiting. Why did I feel like everyone was annoyed with me? I wasn’t the one who stopped the game to court another player!

Folding under the pressure to hurry up and make everyone happy, I replied, “Sure,” but felt annoyed with myself. I wasn’t even remotely interested in Jean-Guy, barely knew him and certainly didn’t find him attractive. I guess I also figured that our relationship would be like any other elementary school relationship I had been in: The boy sends his buddy over to ask me to be his girlfriend, I tell them yes, he goes back and tells him my answer, and then we don’t ever speak to each other again. The End. I think I mostly said yes because everybody seemed irritated with me and also so we could continue playing our game without any trouble. How had I become responsible for that?

But Jean-Guy had something else up his sleeve. Immediately upon entering into our covenant, Jean-Guy decided that I could no longer play dodge ball, but now had to be protected from the ball. He beckoned me—no, he ordered me—over to his side and explained that he would block all the shots himself, and I wouldn’t have to do a thing. I stood against the back of my garage while Eric, Michael, and Travis all took their positions midway through the backyard, ready to fire. In an instant, my role had shifted. Jean-Guy proceeded to wrap his sticky arms around me and deflect any and all balls that were aimed our way by the other boys. Standing stiff and oppressed in him, they took turns chucking the balls. Erin had somehow made her way back out to our game and was retrieving the deflected balls and throwing them back to Michael or Travis or Eric so they could pelt us again. My hero would block them with his arm, and then quickly place it back around me so as not to leave me unattended for even a minute. Or, he would deflect them with his foot, sticking it out just in time so it wouldn’t hurt me. Sometimes it was a close call, which worried me.

Having never been this physically close to a boy in my life, I could smell his dirty pubescent mid-July aroma, feel his clammy arms around me, and hear his breathing as he worked hard to protect his Delicate Little Flower from getting hurt. But most of all, I could feel his vainglory at playing the role of protector. It seemed as though this is what he thought a good boyfriend did: put his girlfriend in the role of invalid and himself in the role of protector. A mere twenty minutes ago I was in the game, hurling balls right at his stray tooth, but upon accepting this role of “girlfriend,” I was not only placed into the role of damsel in distress, but I was expected to play my role perfectly. The worst part was I tried to play it to the best of my abilities. I shrank from the oncoming ball, feigning fear. I winced as his hand narrowly intercepted it, and I stood perfectly still in his sweaty, clammy, chubby arms, while he reveled in his machismo, which I’m pretty sure began to make the other boys hurl the balls our way even harder. So really, he was making things worse.

I began to worry that maybe he had asthma, because all of the physical strain he was putting himself under was really making him start to wheeze, and I was beginning to lose faith in his ability to hold up his end of the bargain. What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to play, not stand here and be treated like some kind of tulip. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could have taken Jean-Guy if I’d really needed to.

Eventually, after yet another very close call that would have probably bruised my face, I could take it no more and pried myself from his grasp. I was tired of this charade. I didn’t need to be protected, so I didn’t know why I pretended that I did. I was doing a lot of things today and didn’t know why. I got back into the game and felt better, but Jean-Guy seemed miffed.

He decided that it would be fun for me and him to go into the clubhouse that was attached to our garage. He said he wanted to try a different kind of game, “kind of like dodge ball, but not really.” He told the other boys to stand near the window while we went inside.

My club house used to be a horse stable way back when, which was so much cooler than what it was used for now—holding things like the croquet set, the Shop-Vac, my dad’s golf clubs, the push mower, and all of the sports stuff we used when we played outside. Additionally, I had hung a handful of posters of Ralph Macchio that I had ripped out of the last few issues of Teen Beat. Like every other girl my age, I was in love with Daniel-san. No adolescent, boy or girl, was free from getting caught up in the romance of Daniel-san and Kumiko. Boys were in their bedrooms practicing their karate moves behind closed doors, and as for myself, I bought hand-held Asian fans and practiced dancing behind them in front of my full-length mirror. With Peter Cetera’s voice emanating from my boom box speakers, I was convinced I could be the American version of Kumiko if I could just catch the fan gracefully when I threw it up in the air. Unfortunately, it rarely happened.

Taking my hand, Jean-Guy led me into the tiny room with just one window. The other three boys were dangerously close to taking off and playing somewhere else, and loitered near the window throwing a ball up and down, weighing their options. What are we doing in here?” I asked, annoyed and wanting to get back outside. I started to make a move toward the door, but Jean-Guy blocked my path and pleaded with me.

“Just wait a minute.”

“No, let me out,” I said. He was being weird and I didn’t like it. I was trapped in my own club-house, shuffling my feet and trying to understand just what the hell we were doing in here. He moved me a little past the window so the boys were out of our view. I was not even ten yet, and was confused as to why he wanted to stay hidden from the other boys. Then all at once, he leaned forward, grabbed both my shoulders in his hands, and put his mouth on mine, trying to shove his tongue down my throat. I could feel it trying to pry my lips apart and I immediately felt like I wanted to vomit.

In an act of pure intuition and self-defense, I cocked my right arm, pulled my head back and punch him in the left cheek, my fist smacking against his flabby and sweaty skin as he fell backward into the corner of the clubhouse against Ralph Macchio, who was staring back at me with his hands clasped in prayer. I was scared, but also very furious. Jean-Guy let out a grunt, wheezed a bit, and had to catch himself against the wall, knocking over the croquet set in the process. Colored balls clanked to the ground, ambling in all directions while the wooden mallets knocked against one another under his weight. I stood there for a few seconds, watching him try to clamor back to his feet, but then quickly pushed open the door of the clubhouse and stormed back outside to where the other boys had gathered. They seemed to have no idea what just took place. I heard Jean-Guy come out a few seconds later, but didn’t pay any attention to what he was saying, as I quickly rounded up the boys and asked if they wanted to play soccer instead. I didn’t want them to leave.  I wanted to quickly forget what had just taken place.  I wanted things to go back the way they had been before Jean-Guy came and ruined it all.

.           At almost-ten-years-old, I’d had my first “relationship” that had lasted a whole 45 minutes. My most confusing and angering 45-minute relationship to date. Just because I was a girl didn’t mean I had to do what boys told me to. Sometimes being “nice” for someone else’s sake, or trying to make them happy and agreeing to do things you didn’t really want to do was the fastest way to misery, and the slowest way to self-respect. I learned that, for the most part, boys are decent enough and are much more interested in knocking your face off with a ball than trying to kiss it, but that once in a while there’s a bad weed. Most of all, I learned that it’s good to give someone the benefit of the doubt and to try to be cordial, but that when they’ve crossed a line with you, there is no room to worry about hurting their feelings or being “mean.” That, sometimes, a right hook is really the only way to get your point across.

So, do you think “DJ Bizzy Mom” has a nice ring to it?

It was only 7:45pm but I was already fantasizing about my pillow.  I’d had a hectic day of dropping the boys off at archery camp, clients, doctor’s office calls about the burn on my son’s foot, picking them back up, and our regular Tuesday evening hockey practice.  I was tired, and I had just inhaled two and a half pieces of pizza.

Oprah said never to eat after 7:00pm.

As I sat in the passenger seat of my husband’s truck, burping onion and mushroom pizza in between yawns, I casually looked to my right just in time to see a car-full of teenage-ish girls pull up right next to us.  There were four of them.  Sun-kissed with long blonde hair they all kept flipping back and forth with their hands.  Their windows were all down, music pulsing, and their bright white teeth sparkling as they laughed and looked up at me.  Surely, they’d seen my husband’s F-150 truck and assumed it would be carrying young, strapping sun-kissed boys.  I am assuming they were marginally disappointed to, instead, be met with an over-tired mom 20 years their senior who was about to unbutton the top button on her shorts.

I discreetly alerted my husband to the flock of beauties in such a way that my boys would not pick up on my shallow and vapid comments about the gaggle of giggling girls next to us:

” Hey…….honey, 3:00.  Check out the Talent over here”.  He gingerly leaned forward in his seat a bit, “Yeah, you’re right….that is a nice car”.

To be perfectly honest, they all looked exactly the same.  Tanned.  Bleach-blonde long hair.  Make-up.  Skimpy clothing.  I was less intrigued by their youthful looks and much more keen on the beautiful, naive look in their eyes.  A look we all had when we were on summer break from college, with our BFF’s while it was 88 degrees outside in mid-July.  That time in life when we’re still financially coddled by our parents, but have enough independence to spread our wings a bit more.  The perfect and safe balance of still being a kid, but thinking we’re adults.

Looking at them through my $8.99 pair of sunglasses that I bought at the local Jolley near my house, a big smile spread across my face.  I couldn’t contain it.  Yes, they may have all looked like clones of Malibu Barbie, but you could tell they were having So.  Much.  Damn.  Fun.

What I envied was the fact that they were at the point in their lives where they could go in a thousand different directions.  They had a million choices.  Their lives were still filled with more questions than answers:  “What do you want to study at college?  Which college do you want to go to?  Are you gonna hook up with Andy tonight?  Are you coming with us to Cancun next Spring?  Where are you gonna work this summer?  A time in their lives when their futures were still wide, wide open.

As any parent knows, when you decide to settle down with someone and have children, the decision greatly decreases the plethora of different paths you may have taken.  Of course, that is exactly why many of us chose to have children:  because we were sick of ourselves.  Sick of only thinking of us. We wanted to create and foster another life and love someone in a way we’ve never known.  And we would never want our lives any other way.

However…..

I’ve been daydreaming of learning how to become a DJ the last few months (does anyone know of any classes around Franklin County Vermont by the way?).  In Junior High I used to compose songs on my Yamaha keyboard, and overlay pre-recorded melodies with other melodies using my boombox and then call up Tami on the phone and torture her by making her listen to them.  (I love you Tami).

I’m also toying with the idea of a subtle, yet tasteful tattoo (okay, okay, it would be of my sons’ names, but hey, I’d still be slinging ink).

I want to write a book, and dye my hair and I want to wear my Converse sneakers to work sometimes and I’d love more than anything to go stay in a tiny cottage in Scotland for a while and learn how to shear sheep by an old, cranky, drunk farmer named Seamus (I know he’s out there waiting for me).

It’s a tricky balance, parenthood.  A tricky balance between sacrifice for your kids and your family, which you feel good doing most of the time, and which fulfills you in so many ways…… and an incessant desire to also indulge your own needs and wants as a human being, separate from making everyone’s favorite meal and making sure they packed their cleats.

I will be 40 in a few months and most people might say I’m having some kind of quasi-mid-life crisis, which I really don’t agree with at all.  I look at it more as me tipping the scales; balancing out the last decade of my life.   I spent my twenties indulging in my every whim and my thirties having babies and focusing on their all-consuming needs.  Now that my boys are older and don’t need me nearly as urgently and constantly as they once did, I’m hoping my 40’s will be more of a better balance for myself.  A new era that may or may not include me trying to pull a Maya Jane Coles.  Although I’ll really need to work on being able to stay up past 8:45pm.

As the car-full of shiny, laughing girls pulled away off into the sunset I yawned, keenly aware of the fact that at 8:00 my day would be ending and theirs would just be starting and I was happy for them and happy for me.  As much as I may miss the freedom that being an almost-adult can bring, I really wouldn’t want to be 19 again.

Okay maybe just for a day.  Or a week.

A month at the very most.