I want a Dum-Dum lollipop for lunch. I want my outfit to look as good as it feels, even though it never does. I want my hair to stay put and still look fresh tonight at the potluck at Sadie’s school. I want friends to miss me and call me, but not ask me to call them back. For the love of Steve Jobs, I don’t want any voicemails.
I want to sail through everything before me, but I want the thrill of having accomplished and endured something. I want the plans to stop changing, but I want everything to be loose. Flexible. I want my favorite shoes to still be in style and my favorite jeans to hold their shape. I want to ignore the CNN crawl but still be informed.
I want a juicy peach, which I’ll never find in Chicago in October, and a cup of winter soup. I want the seasons to enrapture me, but not enslave me. I want my coats to still look cool this winter even though they are puffy, dirty, and past their prime. I want to have a funky style that is recognizable without having to buy anything new.
Oh how I want more hours to read, run, write, and snuggle with my kids. I want this transition to be over. I want a normal life back, even though that feels sort of straight-jackety and hum drum. I want to be faithful, trusting, optimistic. I want a hat that won’t mess up my hair. I want my bus cards to keep working even though there’s some new system that will make the $140.00 worth of tickets I have worthless.
I want to make peace with time—there’s too much when I am alone all afternoon with the kids; there’s not enough when I need a second to catch my breath. I want to have a bedtime routine that ends before 9:15 PM. I want to figure out how to enjoy making lunches for Simon.
I want passion and desire and hunger to look good on me and drive me forward without pinching and chafing me. I want to be proud of myself for trying new things, for “putting myself out there” and for risking rejection.
I want to jump—both feet in—to everything I am doing. I want to belong and fit in and understand all the unspoken rules, protocols, and expectations. I want to cheer others along and hear them cheering for me. I want the cry that’s been sitting on my chest for six weeks to just come up and out already (but not tonight at the potluck because that’s just awkward. After that is fine, though, when I am back home, my babies are in bed, and I am finishing my half-the-fat ice cream and blubbering to Jeff about all of this and more).
I want that great, elusive, mythical enough. Not “more than I can handle” but enough. Plenty, but not too much.