Reunited

Preparing for another flight with the Bean. This time my friend Aparna will be joining me, while Neil stays home. She doesn't know what she's in for. Meanwhile Neil will be wandering around the house, probably half naked, scratching whatever part catches his fancy, while the beer cans and fast food debris pile up. Just kidding, my husband's not like that. He'll definitely have clothes on.

Where will I be, you ask, while my husband revisits his college lifestyle. I will be attending my 16th high school reunion. Why 16th, you ask. Because my class refuses to do things the normal way. I mean, seriously, who wants to have a boring old 15th reunion anyway. Not the class of 1992, that's who.

Our festivities will start with my high school's homecoming football game. What memories that will dredge up. Mostly good, but some not so much. One of only two times I almost got into an actual fistfight was at a high school football game. I'm a total pacifist and a complete wimp so no punches were actually thrown on either occasion. I am a bit of a smartass, though. Luckily, after apparently picking fights on two separate occasions, I got my mouth in check.

I used to love Friday night games. Going to the university football stadium where my school played. The crisp autumn air and the smell of burnt popcorn. Meeting up with all of my friends, watching the game a little, but mostly just wandering around talking. It was so much more about socializing than supporting our school's athletic program. Unless you had a fella on the field, in which case you were all about the game.

There will be more events over the course of the weekend including a trip to Skateland, a tour of our old stomping grounds and a cocktail party that will likely include too many cocktails while we reminisce about all of our old shenanigans.

I am so excited to see all of my old friends. Some of whom I have not seen since high school. I will no doubt have many tales to tell upon my return.

PS - Please keep your fingers, toes and whatever else crossed that Sophie is good on the flight. Amen and hallelujah.

PPS - I'm sorry I've haven't been out visiting all of my bloggy friends quite as much the last few days, it's been a little insane in the Land of Bean (colds, no sleep, packing). I plan to come see all of you upon my return from Oz.

PPPS - I keep forgetting, but I wanted to thank everyone for your super kind words about my haircut! I will dine on that praise for months. Truly.

The Swim Moms

When Sophie was about 6 months old, we began taking Mommy and Me swim classes. Our swim school was pretty flexible on what session each week you attended, so I tried out a couple of different days. First I tried the Tuesday group and found it was headed up by a woman with crazy eyes, so I tried the Thursday group, which turned out was full of moms who wore full make-up (no lie) and jewels into the pool. Not being the sort to break the family heirlooms out of the safe deposit box just to impress a bunch of ladies I didn't know, I opted to try another day. That's how I landed on the Wednesday 10:30 class. Although "class" is a huge overstatement. At that age, I don't really believe she was learning how to swim. I, however, was gaining critical knowledge of the words to some crucial nursery rhymes and children's songs that were sung as we dragged our babies around the pool. Not surprising that in a life or death environment like that, you forge some pretty strong bonds. Thus, core group was formed.

This summer, we all decided to discontinue the classes until fall as most of us had access to outdoor pools. However, we have stayed in touch and get together quite a bit. Neil says we're our own little gang and he calls us The Swim Moms. You must say those three words with a deep, ominous tone. We are all stay at home moms that live within close proximity to each other and have children within a couple of months of the same age. I'm not ashamed to admit that before I found these gals, I was pretty lonely. Being a stay at home mom can be isolating. I can't imagine how women of eras past did it.

Imagine living on a farm a hundred, hell, fifty years ago. No internet, no television, and likely as not, no telephone. I guess that's part of why farm families were always so large. You needed the company. Well, that and not much else to do but make babies. My own grandpa was one of 14 children. Just contemplating being pregnant 14 times, all singles, is absolutely mind-boggling to me. It is also likely that there was a miscarriage or two in there. Imagine the heartbreak. And going through it basically by yourself. The strength of these women shames me. It makes me think that I am soft. That I never would have had the fortitude to survive those long, lonely days while the men were out working in the fields. I know there was plenty to keep them busy, but that is a far cry from interactions with other people.

I often feel like I was born in the wrong time, that my personality is suited to medieval times or the renaissance or even the early part of this century. Just about every era holds intrigue for me, for one reason or another. But the truth is that I am a child of my times. I live and breathe the luxuries that we have come to expect. I would have wilted under the restraints placed on women in years past. My independence and intelligence (such as it is) would have been enough to make me an outcast at best, and likely the target of a witch hunt at worst.

I guess the bottom line is how grateful I am for my swim moms. And I am really glad I don't live on a farm in the 1800s.