It is usually after I've had that extra glass of wine that I become philosophic. It is always on the nights when my daughter is with her father, and I have the house all to myself. I've gone for a long run with the dog, and eaten whatever the hell I want to for dinner, which, if you've ever spent the better part of your week making sure that everything you prepare is balanced and nutritious, you'll understand is a great luxury. I've cranked the speakers on the stereo, and danced around my kitchen to bad 80's music while doing the dishes, and then, in the lull of activity between the end of dinner and bedtime, I unconsciously take mental stock of my life. I notice the very small pieces of framed art that adorn my colorful walls, my collection of random, but gorgeous pottery serving bowls, and stare with pride at the black piano that a work colleague sold to me for fifty bucks when she downsized her house. It isn't lost on me that at 36, I am wearing my wedding dress for a bridesmaid dress in January, and that I have the freedom, once again, to dance barefooted around my house with no one to stare at me with reproach. There is headiness in the realization that my life is completely mine.
Tonight, I sorted the recycling and paused to look at the ridiculously mature-looking tykes that J Crew uses to advertise its insanely overpriced juvenile clothing. I thought about my own daughter, worried recently about her classmates' occasional comments that she is weird. She looks so much like me: large, Disney character brown eyes that occupy more than a third of her face; wide, gummy smile that reveals teeth too small for her mouth. Her nose is dotted with freckles, and hints that when full grown, it will be slightly too pronounced for her delicate face. I wonder what her future will be like when her life has rolled her through my number of years, when her small face has grown to look even more like mine. At one point in her life, I wanted for her perfection: no pain, no bumps, no bruises, no angst, no tough choices. But I thought of who she might be if her path through life was too smooth, devoid of any close calls, near misses, or an occasional direct hit. I thought about who I might have been without the cracks in my sidewalk that sent me sprawling headlong to the cement, scraping knees and elbows, knocking out the occasional small, front tooth. Because it is nights when I've had that second glass of wine, and danced my single girl's dance of freedom that I am struck by how perfect it all turned out.
And this knowledge that, at least in my life, it all appeared to happen for a reason, is what allows me to release my seemingly too fragile child out into the world, and hope for the best for her, too.
