Monday, January 21, 2013
In some very real ways it did feel like we were only playing at adulthood, then.
There were rings on our fingers but none under our eyes. We wore excitement for the newness of the now and were satiated by shared orders of bottomless french fries and endless talk of dreams for our futures. It's not that we were childish for our age — on the contrary, we took our responsibilities quite seriously — we simply did not have very many of them yet.
The roots of our adult lives were still shallow and untested, but we were staked together and growing in friendship.
When it was time, we compared notes on morning sickness, walked halls of maternity wards, and cried over crying babies because we were told that we would eventually understand what they were trying to say to us, and we didn't yet — we still didn't have a clue. Soon our one year-olds were lined up in rows of pizza parlor highchairs as we snapped photos of round faces and rolled legs, just to document the fact that our children had indeed survived our first-year parenting skills.
And then we did it again.
And some of our babies would never be held this side of heaven. We'd mourn in our own ways, but together; offering shoulders and the opportunity to break away; the freedom to not have to function.
As we matured in our new roles as mommies and wives, our times together naturally became less frequent. Even though some of us still lived in the same town, there were a few years where 'being out together' meant that we had both run out of toiletries on the same day and just happened to bump into each other in the aisles of Target. We would suddenly remember how cool the other was, and oh-my-goodness-we-really-need-to hang-out-soon!
Here and there we would succeed, but more often than not, life would cut in line. It took us a while to realize that sometimes you just have to push right back.
We possess in us a great need for community, the spurring on, the walk-along-side.
Our chubby firstborns are now big brothers and sisters who are tiptoeing the entrance of their teen-age years. Over time we have lost parents or jobs, and in some cases, spouses. No one asks us why we aren't in school anymore.
Some of our dreams have become unrecognizable, having been buried in the rubble of testing, but we speak life and rebuild while it is still today, because we know that we are going to blink again, and it won't be.
We pour deep into each others lives — together again, but changed..
Is there someone you have been meaning to reconnect with? Might I encourage you to take even a small step away from that Ordinary that keeps us spinning and do just that? To not put it off for another day?
This post linked (tardy again!) with the Imperfect Prose community.