I’m a leftover girl. I bring last nights dinner tidbits to the office most days. Yesterday, my lunch went into a bag marked “Andrea”. I suddenly felt like a kid, taking my lunch bag to school.
But I’m older, and recess isn’t quite the same as it used to be. My grown-up self chooses yoga over kickball, and lunch is my gourmet leftovers and not one of the (ick!) lunches I remember dad made for me, this one in 4th grade: bologna on rye with too much warm butter, melting in the New Jersey heat, augmented by a too old banana, darkened with age. The teacher, noticing my tall skinny self, decided she would lay down the law and make me stay at my desk through recess until I ate every bite. Gag me. Really. I can’t blame dad, though. Buttered rye, cold cuts (usually salami) and tomatoes were the staples of his Hungarian lunch, along with hot yellow banana peppers and a beer.
This morning, it was fall as I did yoga on our deck. As I moved through my downward dogs into shivasina, a conversation kept floating through my mind. I met a dear friend last night for a yummy cocktail(s). We had some scheduling problems, and between soccer and play dates and more, she carved out a couple of ours for us. After my bad bologna story, she told me about folks in a nearby office who actually do “recess”, and she was ready to play. When she asked about what’s up with our quest to have a baby, I recognized that if I was blessed to get (and stay) pregnant, I’d see myself parenting a lot like her. I asked her: so, tell me the truth, is it really all worth it? Is it really the best thing ever? Is it the most frustrating thing ever? You see, I was having my doubts about the endless soccer/baseball/music schedules and challenges of finding time for yourself and ….her answer: “I LOVE BEING HIS MOM. For me, it’s all about who I get to be.” Just then, the sun peeked over the neighboring tree, and bathed my yoga-d body in warm yellow light.