This morning I had an interesting thought. It was: Hey, I’m just dressed the way I’d normally dress. No need to change anything or even have a moment’s worry.
Why is this interesting? Well, today we are hoping to meet another blogger who lives in my area. I’ve known her quite some time, and she takes beautiful pictures of her little girl and everything else. She’s coming over to our house this afternoon – and when I told Coconut a little girl named Ivy and her Mama Lauren might come over this afternoon, she replied, ‘Ivy is my best friend!’ What a great way to approach meeting new people.
I think she gets it from me.
I don’t know where this confidence comes from. Ten years ago, hell, maybe even five, I would have been thinking about what sort of impression I wanted to make. What to wear, specifically, which is totally fucked up because I don’t care about things like that in the least.
But this morning I didn’t think about any of that till I was already dressed. Is this the mythical confidence that kicks in during your thirties? Is this the confidence attached to feeling like a great parent? Maybe both.
I could write a veerrrryyy long post about my views – past, present, and future – and attitudes towards social situations and meeting new people. The short story is I was a child with no friends but a very active imaginative life, and now I’m an adult who has shining social skills. I think camp helped me make the transition. I think coming out did, too – I had to OWN who I was, be proud of it, and take major risks in order to live my life.
So here I am today.
When we open the door, Lauren will have to climb over all the fucking toys that will no doubt be coating the floor* by the time she arrives. My children will probably be mostly naked. We still have moving boxes in the dining room. And you know? It’s okay.
I mean, you readers of this blog, you know my trials and tribulations (and love!) of reuseable menstrual cups, my epic battles with pooping during pregnancy, my deep and fragile emotional upheaval around my father. Compared to those things, what the fuck difference does it make what I’m wearing?! Ha.
*Or more likely, on the couch. The kids had a game before we moved where they shoved all the toys into barracades. Just giant piles that divided the room. Snort upped the game by carefully fitting pieces together – so effectively that I would be trapped in the kitchen and unable to break apart these masterpieces. This evolved into playing ‘rubbish truck’ once we moved. They literally pile anything and everything onto chairs, couches, whatever.
We’re talking toy pianos, books, mini chairs, every toy, shoes, etc. NOW this has changed once more into ‘car ride.’ They pack up the car to go for a ride on our big, red couch. They fill every fucking available space, and stack it up with about three feet of random shit. Every single day. So you know, no one can actually make use of the couch for the use it was intended. Though it more often than not is covered in these shit heaps (aka ‘The very special and important things we need for our car ride’) and I want to encourage them to build and create. It causes no harm.
It’s cute. So I may have forgotten what the couch was originally for, but judging by the faces of those who enter our house, I should probably hang up a warning sign or something.