The other night Topher and I were talking about the possibility of me traveling with him this summer to London. Every year he takes a group of theater students on study abroad and if I’m not pregnant or nursing a baby, I go with him. I’ve gone once, years ago. In my journal, I wrote (which is a miracle in and of itself) that I should do this every year, no matter what. It was so great for me–so great for my marriage–so great to think deep, continued thoughts! Well, years have passed and here I am.
It’s not that I don’t want to go or that I don’t think I deserve to go or anything like that, it’s simply the fact that I plan things all day that I would like to do and they are constantly thwarted. I don’t bemoan this fact (anymore), I accept it. In fact, I’m so used to it I assume everyone lives that way. Trips to the grocery store, finishing the laundry, any glamorous task, all seemingly simple and routine are kind of out of my control as to when they will happen, plan as I might. Yesterday I was up before the kids, fed them breakfast, got them dressed, got the big kids off to school, and try as I might, I couldn’t get out the door to make it to 10 o’clock play group. Hugh kept changing his clothes, Margaret kept pooping, Phoebe was tired and sluggish. It wasn’t like I was watching tv (I wish), it just didn’t happen, even though we all wanted to go and we were all planning on it. So we went to the library instead. (Whoop-de-do. Wasn’t that a compelling story? Don’t worry, I’ll develop a novel out of that last paragraph.)
I know this is partly why I love performing improv so much: no preplanning, just step on stage and see what happens. Take it as it comes. No denials (or tantrums), just accept every offering and add to it. It’s thrilling and it’s completely validating and encouraging this theory of come-what-may mothering.
But now I find myself caught between becoming this flexible, come-what-may-I-won’t-lose-it Mom, and not wanting to plan on anything. I’m suspicious of people who plan trips (suckers!) because there are so many variables (childcare, money, swine flu!) and I convince myself of all the benefits of just staying at home, literally, until my youngest is 10. It will just be easier that way. I have, of course, expressed this several times to Topher, who is the eternal optimist, and pleads for me to go, which is sweet and I think (you never know what might happen between now and then) pretty much seals the deal.
Topher pleads “You have to come, or I’ll be stuck with a bunch of theater students for weeks by myself and I’ll go crazy!”
“Um, try that again. . .” I gently suggest.
“Uh, please come because I’ll miss you so much if you don’t. . .?”
“Say it again without laughing. And be more convincing. For crying out loud–you’re an acting professor! You can be more compelling.”
“I’ll die if you don’t go, I’ll miss you so much.”
“You’ll DIE?! Wow! Well, I wouldn’t want that. I guess I’ll have to go. I have no choice.”
“I’ll die. I would not be able to do it without you.”
“Stop smiling while you say it. Is that too much to ask?”
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