Every post can't be about Asher and CP now can it?! Let's get this blog back in order and start talking about some of the rest of us!
We're back from Vancouver refreshed (well exhausted to be truthful!) but we had a fantastic weekend that was good for the soul.
Now onto the business of actually sharing some of the writing from my writing class that I have promised a few times and then never gotten around to - here is installment number one. A month or so ago in one of our class sessions we began talking about the idea of "Mom Rehab". Our teacher knows the editor of a website for momsand pitched an idea to her for a story on the subject. The editor was totally on board and asked for us all to submit something and she would pick her three favourites and run them as a series. I unfortunately, was not selected (congrats to my classmates who were!), so instead I will share mine here.
I stand at the desk in a bright spacious lobby. I am greeted by a beautiful woman who speaks softly, welcoming me by name.
"We've been expecting you", she says.
I wonder how I got here, let alone how she knows who I am. She tells me I am in rehab, a special kind for mothers. I have no idea what she's talking about. She says I should enjoy my experience and let things happen as I need them to. Then she sends me, with no directions, to find my accommodations.
"How will I know where to go?" I ask in a daze.
"You'll just know", she replies.
"How long will I be here?" I say, perplexed. Before I have my answer she's gone.
I walk out the main door and see a path through a field of wild flowers, so I follow it. They are wonderfully fragrant and the colours are vibrant, causing me to squint as I look at them in the sunlight. In the distance I see a small house. I look around and see nothing else, so continue towards it. As I walk nearer to the house I am greeted by an orchard full of ripe fruit and beyond that a garden growing every type of vegetable imaginable.
I reach the front door and it is ajar so I walk in. Immediately I am greeted by a breeze and notice the back of the house opens to a deck. I realize I am on a cliff overlooking the ocean, waves crashing on the rocks below.
I look around the house, the smell of fresh cut flowers filling each room. I notice a large mirror and look closer to admire the intricate wood carved frame. I catch a glimpse of my reflection - it's me on my wedding day, smiling and laughing in my beautiful ivory lace dress. I step back, confused, but I look again. This time I am in a hostel in Argentina, my hair so long and sun bleached, and my skin so tanned, I barely recognize myself. Thinking I'm losing my mind, I look one more time and see myself holding my three month old daughter, buried close to my chest in her carrier. Suddenly, I realize the images are of me at my happiest, looking and feeling my best. I wonder how this is possible. How is any of this actually happening?
I begin to lose track of time. Have I been here an hour? A day? A week? Everything I could want is here. Whenever I'm hungry, a gourmet meal arrives, using fruit and vegetables from the private garden. If I feel tension in my back, a massage therapist knocks at the door. When I run my fingers through my hair, silently cursing the overdue colour and cut, my phone rings to say I have an appointment at a salon. My every need is taken care of.
I think about my girlfriends and they walk in with wine and decadent desserts. We laugh, a lot. Some of them have been to this place. For one, it was a cabin on a deserted ski hill with a crackling wood stove and fresh powder as far as the eye could see. For another it was a remote island in the South Pacific, served fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas by shirtless cabana boys. For each of us it provides exactly what we need, yet none of us understands how or why.
It's getting late so I say my farewells to my friends. As suddenly as they arrived, they're gone. I walk out onto the deck into the large soaker tub under the stars. Carefully stepping in, I feel the warm water against my skin, and see that there are just the right amount of lavender scented bubbles. I look up and see a shooting star falling through the sky above me before I close my eyes and concentrate only on the sound of the waves lapping on the beach below.
After enjoying my bath I step into a white chenille bath robe, the perfect size. I climb into bed and crawl under the covers, feeling the sheets, soft and perfectly smooth without wrinkles. I pull them up to my face and breathe in the soft scent of clean, pressed laundry. The room is warm but the pillow cases are cold and crisp, just the way I like them. Seconds later I'm asleep and am not woken until the sun peeks in through the shades at light of day.
I get up, stretch, and smell coffee brewing. I pour myself a cup and looking for milk, I find kahlua instead; that will do. As I walk outside to enjoy the sunrise, I catch sight of myself in the mirror again. I see myself as I look now - hair pulled back, no make up, bathrobe and slippers. Maybe not looking my best, but feeling my best: refreshed, rejuvenated, alive.
I am overwhelmed with the sense that my rehab has worked. I want to go home and see my three beautiful children and loving husband. I am ready to take on another day of reality.