Ever Mine, Ever Thine, Ever Ours

We devoured tortilla chips, mini chimis and big margaritas, frozen for one, top shelf for another, sugar-rimmed for me. We talked fast and laughed loud and I gestured wildly enough to jostle my drink, sending the bartender over with a rag and a quizzical gaze. I almost ended up seated beside strangers twice after potty breaks, but eventually we settled in the dark, together, and watched women in impossibly high stilettos live outrageous lives nothing like the three of ours, which are nothing like each other's. Walking to our cars, I looked down at my Naturalizers, which were red, but still Naturalizers, and asked if anyone really wears $500, six-inch tall shoes. "They must have lots of corns," I said.

"Well I went from Easy Spirits to Crocs," Nikki said, gesturing to her flip flops, "and I'm pretty sure these have spit up on them."

I got in my busted up Acura and called my long-suffering husband, who, I would soon learn, had emptied the dishwasher and prepared bottles and cared for our baby and finished his homework, and who didn't for one second make me feel guilty for my ill-timed break. "We're getting ready for bedtime. We were just about to read a story," he reported. I suggested Little Big. "Last night we read There's a Wocket in my Pocket, so maybe we'll take your suggestion."

I rolled down all the windows and opened the sunroof and let the indie rock blare. Even though I was wearing jeans a size bigger than the size bigger I was before I got pregnant, and that coupled with my cropped hair puts me nowhere near the ladies I had just watched on the big screen, I thought of my own group of four. I thought of the women who would drive through the night and run in heels in the rain to be with me if I needed them. And when I have needed them, they have. I thought of so many other drives, with one of them beside me, our hearts screaming through open windows. And though I've never found their equal, I thought of the awe-inspiring women I've met since. The wives who are trudging beside me, the mothers who are teaching me, the girls who sat beside me with my spilled margarita and laughed with me.

I thought of my sweet husband who loves me and our daughter and tells us all the time and shows us even more. And even though I was coming home to a house upended-- my poor mother-in-law on the couch because her broken foot will not allow for stairs, my sister-in-law working a double and then sleeping in our guest room so she could help her mother with our baby since we don't have daycare this week, a bathroom no one can use easily because it lacks a floor and some walls and a sink or counter, a poorly-equipped kitchen because I chose Sex and the City with the girls over grocery shopping by myself-- I couldn't wait to get there. I went about the monotonous litany of tasks I perform every night, chatting away.

"You can tell she had a margarita," The Boy said to his mother.

I advised them that was hours ago.

"Are you just in a good mood because you had a good time? Because maybe you should go out more often."

"I had a wonderful time," I told him, but that was not all.

Our life is more making do than making it big, and I can sometimes get stuck underneath the tedium of the quotidian. But not last night. I felt enveloped by the beautiful in my life that no one is entitled to and that can slip away in a moment. As usual, I felt overwhelmed, but not in the usual way.

I had missed bed time and settled, sadly, for a kiss on the cheek. I was thrilled when my sweet girl awoke crying, just before 1:00 and for the first time in months, apparently because she was cold. She beamed at me while I dressed her in warmer pajamas and rocked with her before
putting her back to bed. I nuzzled my face in her fuzzy hair and whispered her songs and held her tight.

It's not that the movie was great. It wasn't. My city and my world may be much smaller and far grittier and more cluttered than the one I watched last night. But every so often something interrupts my busy day to remind me that it's all the little things I take for granted that constitute a life. It doesn't mean I won't ever complain or forget. But, at least for today, I get it and am unspeakably grateful for it.