A few months short of five years ago, I flew down to Houston for a long Memorial Day weekend with my best redhead Lynn. 

My cousin Dennis lives there, so I figured I'd give him a call.  We hadn't ever hung out as grown ups, and it was time we did.  So we did.  We accidentally tore it up.  Texas is probably better off that we don't both live there.  Even it's not big enough for the both of us.  And now I miss him dearly.  I often wonder how I would feel about him if we didn't have that time together.  Would I miss him?  Would I think of him every day?  Wonder what he is doing?  What he is singing?  Reading?  Driving?  Or would he just be some guy I used to know when we were kids who just happened to be my dad's brother's son?
I wonder how I would feel about Dennis' brother Alan if we didn't spend a week in Rome together.  If we didn't jump the train to Florence one day because we were bored.  Because that was the kind of  people we were that week.  People who could afford to be bored.  In Rome.  Two long lost cousins, he staying with his girlfriend in Germany, me tagging along with my husband in Italy, both of us bumming Europe at the same time, both of us hungry and we wanted to try rice gelati and we heard that it wasn't really good anywhere other than Florence Fucking Italy.  So we went. To eat ice cream made out of rice.  And see some art and stuff too.

That was almost ten years ago.  I'll write more about that later this year.  I'm on a tangent.  That happens here sometimes.  Here in my head.  Fast forward to the past.  Five years ago.  Houston.  Dennis.  Lynn.  Me.

Me.

I had the life where I could hop a flight half way across the country, see enough of Houston to decide that I don't need three more days of it, and suggest we get in the car and drive to New Orleans.  So we did.  Because we could.  Because we had full time jobs and some money in the bank and great benefits and street smarts and book smarts and men at home who would call the police if they didn't hear from us every six to eight hours.

And lots of eyeliner and hotdogs and rum and blood and eggs and beads and vomit and truckstops and crawfish and sewage and shrunkenheads and balconies and hotsauce and dragshows and none of all that necessarily ours later, we got back in the car and drove back to Texas in time to catch the Astros game on Monday afternoon.

Then I came home. 
And my life resumed until the next time I got on a plane or a bus or behind the wheel of a car or put on my shoes or jumped off that last step onto the platform of the subway and I headed off to do something fun again.  And that life was good.  I think.  It's hard to remember that far back.
The last almost five years have seemed to practically erase the first almost thirty.  Funny how motherhood does that to you.

I'm almost at a point where I can just about look back on those times, the times that could have/would have become a lifestyle if not for becoming a mom.  The lifestyle that I wanted so badly for myself.  That I worked so hard to have.  That crumbled under my feet the minute I found out I was pregnant.

I can look back and say that I did that.  I lived that life for a good long while. I was free to do what I wanted and I did it because there was nothing holding me down.  I went places.  All sorts of places.  I went all sorts of places with all sorts of people.  I did the right things at the right times.  I did the wrong things at the right times.  I was young and beautiful and educated and employed and in love and I was damned happy most of the time.  I got to be that girl.  Me.  That was me doing those things.  Those things they write books and make movies about and people read and watch because they want their lives to be
just
like
that.

And now I get to do all sorts of new things.  Mid-thirties Ladyish Things.  And Mommy things too.  And that isn't so bad, now that the baby part is over.  That fucking royally sucked giant filthy ass.

And after this is over, there is a whole other set of things I'll get to do.  And that probably won't be so bad either, provided I don't mind getting exotic new mustaches every other week and bi-annual freckle checks and it used to be that I only had two boobs, but now they are cropping up all over my body.  Nipple-less saggy breasts.  Everywhere.

Life is pretty good, when you put your shit kickers on and keep your face turned to the sun.

***

Ladies and gentlemen, I just made you all read an awards post.  Seems that there are scores of you who skip once you see an award button at the top of each post, so I'm putting them at the bottom now.
Take that, mother suckers!

Thank you Lucy, for the Beautiful Blogger Award!

Lucy is going through what I'm already in denial about.  Her youngest child (she has two, and one is already out of the house) is in her senior year of high school and is planning for college.  So I'm reading along and trying to get pointers so I can better deal when the time comes for me.

Now, I don't want to be the typical South Philly mom.  You know the type.  Where the son lives at home until he's 40 and he gets treated like he's 5 until the day he finds a wife.  But I also don't like thinking about the day Jake moves out and I have to deal with all that.  Because as much as I don't like washing his dishes and clothes and stepping on his stuff and all that crap?  It's going to be hard to find that person who I was before he was living all up in my guts.  (Yes, life stops when you get pregnant.  Hate to break it to you non-moms out there.)  I'm already gearing up to start planning for Jake's departure, because I'm sure to be one of those crazy empty nesters if I'm not careful.  I'll be the one driving 300 miles on Saturday morning and knocking on his dorm room door, all like "Jake, Darling, is there any laundry you need done?  I brought pancakes.  And stewed apples.  What's this sock on your doorknob?  Honey, give me all the dark stuff first, and while that's in the wash, I'll run around and get some Borax to soak the whites.  Is someone in there with you?  I hear a girl.  You better not have someone else in there doing your laundry for you.  Is someone making your dinners?  Jacob?  Is someone feeding you MSG?  I hear growling.  You know MSG doesn't agree with your belly.  JACOB!!  Jacob Alexander, this is your mother.  Get out here right now.  I'm getting the RA if you don't open the door this instant."

Not really.

But in my head that's what I'll be saying.