Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Spin Cycling

Inspiration comes to me from everywhere; every single day. I act on a lot of it, but if you were privy to the folds in my brain matter, you'd have to sit down to catch your breath. My brain never, ever stops. My memory is even worse. Better? I don't know. Go, go, go. My brain looks like your Pinterest boards. Combined with your sister's. And your boss's. And your entire street's. To all of the college freshman, to all of the stay-at-home Mamas everywhere.

I was washing the Lil' Dude's school clothes the other night. I was snipping tags and sorta sorting colors. I washed the clothes alone, and I don't know why. I guess I didn't want their fluffy, crispy, newness to be ruined by older, dirtier, more experienced clothes. As I shut the washer, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia that you could have surfed on, right into the sunset.

I told you about my brain. I remember 3rd grade with great clarity. I can tell you all the outfits I've worn on every single business trip since 2005. I remember the songs, the scents, the scenes. I've got raging OCD ... but of the cute variety. Not of the clinical kind (for the most part).

So imagine if you will- me, pregnant. With OCD. And a strong, shared desire to not know the sex of my baby until its birth day. It was the first time in my life I didn't feel in control and it quite honestly, scared the shit out of me. But even worse, it made me insufferably insane.

I didn't know what I was carrying. I didn't know when it would be born, or how. I JUST DIDN'T KNOW.

As I amassed piles of gender-neutral clothing, bedding, and babyness, I realized in all my planning-glory I had enough heaps to do laundry. I bought my first bottle of Dreft, and swooned with baby anticipation as I took the first whiff. And I threw all those impossibly tiny onesies in with handmade fleece receiving blankets and burp rags and bibs and the cutest booties you've ever seen.

And as I closed the lid on the washer, I exhaled. Here goes nothing, I thought. What the Hell. Whatever happens, happens.


And as I closed the lid of the washer a few nights ago I uttered the same sentiment. Here goes nothing. What the Hell. Whatever happens, happens. I can't very well prepare myself, or worse yet, her, for what will happens as she starts school next week just as I couldn't prepare myself for pregnancy, childbirth, or parenthood.

And it's not about her; she's aces. She chose skinny jeans for her school debut, be still my heart. It's not about letting go. I've let her go one thousand times, and one thousand and one times too many. She comes back. My Dad was right, there are more than enough hours in a week to get your Mama on, and parent the way you choose. It's about me and what I can't be prepared for.

So I'll just keep washing clothes, load after load.

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