BlogHer '14 Day 1; Douche

You know what's unfortunate? The French word for shower: douche. I mean, isn't that such a Romance language #fail? French is am incredibly melodic tongue. Even though I can neither speak it -despite years of study- nor understand it, hearing it roll forth rapidement makes me want to take a roll in the hay. Except when I get into a warm bath and see Gel Douche scrawled across my lovely bottle of fancy-schmantz body wash. I do not, then, want to slather my body in it. Which is a bummer, because how often do I have the opportunity for a proper bath during which interruption by small children who wish to cast their eyes upon mom "nibbles" is impossible? Rarely.

Anyway, today, Day 1 of, was an exceedingly full and enriching one at BlogHer '14. I returned to my hotel room a full twelve hours after leaving it and did so exhausted in the tremendous way one is after learning, processing and interacting much.

My two primary take-aways from the impressive array of bloggers, editors, grammaticians, authors, comedians, businesswomen and one man from which I heard are thus.

1. We are all struggling with something, simply trying to be both authentic and heard AND (I'm sorry Rita Arens and Arnebya Herdon but I cannot bring myself to use the Oxford comma) realize our truest selves.

In light of that effort,

2) We must be bold. We must be brave. We must believe in ourselves and our truths. We must honor those and seek support in doing so. Down with the naysayers, up with the hands that lift.

From today:

"I'm not for everyone, and that's good." - Jenny Lawson, The Blogess

"Be who you are without apology." and "When you are yourself, you give others the space to be themselves." - Anita Jackson, MomsRising

"By sharing truths, we say how things could be." - Deb Rox, Deb On the Rox

"Food is history, chemistry, biology and culture. It loves and heals, gives and sustains life." - Elise Bauer "Listen up, bloggers. Nobody cares what you had for lunch today." - Food & Wine, 2006 "You just don't get it. At all." - Elise Bauer

"The more I blogged, the more I became familiar with ME." - Alexandra Rosas, Good Day, Regular People

The Painted Reed

To my right was the motley crew that constituted row 8, seats D-F. In the window sat an outrageously stylish woman in lace-up stilettos, a flowing skirt and denim vest few could pull off and a gold statement necklace of epic proportion. She had a subtly highlighted, choppy do, and oozed cool from every pore. This was all the more remarkable because our flight was scheduled to leave Houston just after 9am; I had previously felt awesome about having worn a bracelet today. Next to Ms. Style sat a prim, gray-haired, seventy-something swathed in all manner of practicality such as cushiony SAS shoes and an enormous, embroidered shawl. I was surprised, pleasantly so, to see how technologically adept she appeared, rocking her ear buds and swiping her iPad screen left and right in between sips from a full can of real Coke. Maybe tech-grannies are the norm on flights to San Jose and the greater Silicon Valley.

The Painted Reed anchored the aisle seat across from mine. Tall and willowy, she was garbed in brick red skinny jeans, a black tee, dark Ray Bans which appeared affixed to her head, more tats than virgin skin and, of course, black Vans. She seemed encircled by an air of drama, completely of her own making.

Her first phone conversation -you see, we were stuck on the tarmac for a while- was an eight-round frustration knock-out with a customer service agent. She felt she had reserved a room, they said it had been released. "But I need one! Are you telling me I CAN'T? have one? Why is this hard? Do you understand what I am saying? I have said the same thing FOUR times." Ultimately, I think she got it.

Her second exchange involved the retelling of this fiasco to a friend with whom she seemed unwilling to share airspace. She laugh-talked -really, it was such a bizarre gigglespeak- so unceasingly for such an impressive amount of time that I started to wonder if there actually was anyone on the other end; if her phone had rung, I wouldn't have been that surprised.

Ray Bans still on, she rummaged through her bag and opened a gray velour throw which she placed atop her lap with a flourish. Her reedy fingers then extracted from a purse (the purse thing surprised me; I wasn't expecting this bird to own a pursey-purse though it was greige), a vintage pill box. She opened it and the used one reed to nose though its offerings, finally selecting one capsule, popping it in her mouth and downing it sans water. Impressive.

Her compact mirror emerged for the first time. Ray Bans still decidedly on, the reedy digits began a lengthy, infinitely patient process of combing through and placing just so seemingly each individual strand of her hair, hair that had been dyed that maroon-raven color; you know, the so dark it has a vaguely purple cast to it.

She then ordered a Coke and bag of caramel brownie bites, and removed her cigs from her purse as if considering actually lighting up. Are you getting just the image of Painted Reed?

After snacking, she went another round of hair do'ing in front of her mirror before calling it quits and nodding off. She slept with her Ray Bans on and mouth pursed, lips slightly open, as if irritated, in pain or constipated. Most unfortunate.

I hope she makes it wherever she's headed.

And I hope the dear elderly woman wearing boots, a bike helmet and a full-on parka doesn't expire from heat stroke. And I hope the tatted-neck guy who boarded the plane clutching a sweet floral pillow with real love got a good nap with it.

I myself read, napped, wrote and met an extremely cool woman, Betsy, who also attended Northwestern and now does really fantastic non-profit work at benetech on behalf of literacy, environmental issues and human rights. Sing it, sister.

A newly flush wellspring?

I became aware, just two days ago, that the wonderful camp at which the boys will spend the next month ran longer each day than I'd thought. 8:10am drop-off, 4:45pm pick-up. Unless I'm out of town or they're with their grandparents, we've never, and certainly not regularly, spent that much time apart. And because this camp is 25 miles away from home, out in MD, they are a real bus ride away. When Jack was five -Ol's age now- you couldn't have paid me to send him off for so long. I'd have looked at you like you were certifiably insane if you'd even suggested the idea to me. I mean, the first time Tom and I left Jack with grandparents for the weekend, we recorded a DVD for him and instructed the gramps to play it. More than once. It's possible they laughed at us. The way I am laughing at myself, now. In any case, you see what I'm saying. Sending him to camp, on a school bus, for a LOT of hours would not have happened.

So here I am sending them both off for some old-fashioned day camp fun. It sounded like such a good idea when I registered, and they were beside themselves at the open house we attended. Farm animals! A war canoe! Creeks! Dirt! Canoeing! Tending plants! New water bottles! And I was envious of the fun I knew they'd have. Downright covetous because I wanted to hold chickens and commune with goats all day too. I felt like such a courageous mom, enabling my boys to have this adventure together.

And then this morning came, and we rounded the corner of a city street and saw the big white school bus (why don't school buses have seat belts?!) and counselors I didn't know from Adam, and my heart started to pound just a bit, and my stomach talked to me quietly. I put a brave smile on my face and walked the boys to the bus, and I swear to you, quicker than you could blink they were on that bus finding seats together. I planted myself near their window, all blowing kisses and carrying on about missing them. And they tolerated me in an extremely loving fashion. As I took my first steps back to the car, I could tell they didn't even notice. They were just so excited and open and willing to brave an unknown. And I burst with pride and called my own mother to tell her that my little boys were on a school bus all by themselves and she burst with pride too.

Then I realized that I had EIGHT and change hours to myself. And that I'll have that again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

And that maybe I'll be able to breathe a bit, to slow my pace, to tell Hurry to shove off. Perhaps I'll be able to finish up on all the to-dos I've let languish and then invest myself in the activities I've been pining to do but haven't felt able to prioritize. Maybe the wellspring that's sourced my writing font will run rapid again, the bottleneckers, Stress and Busy, no longer rude obstructionists of which I'm quite tired.

Maybe I'll have time to miss my boys, maybe even time to feel a bit lonely in my blissfully quiet home. Perhaps I'll reclaim the stasis that enables me to be the kind of mother I really want to be, with real energy rather than pretend, with some of the lightness that's been softly tamped over the past few months.

As the hours passed today, I felt the benefit of this time for myself and the promise of more tomorrow. I talked to several friends on the phone, sent flowers to a birthday girl, walked Percy -twice!- got some work done for the boys' school, dealt with one pile of "important" crap. I felt Calm seep in and wash my brow with its cool hands. I day-dreamed while pitting cherries. I made a jam plan for tomorrow. And when the late hour drew near, I hurriedly put on a bit of make-up and some sandals so I could take my loves out for a celebratory dinner and dessert. They tumbled off the bus, filthy and happy and pooped. We got caught in a torrential downpour and laughed for two hours straight. It felt really good.