How Did I Get Here

Picture a beach. Long shadows as the afternoon relaxes toward evening. Children, happy, damp, beginning to tire.

Picture mothers savouring this slow time, this sandy moment before the dinnertime, bathtime, the bedtime rodeo.

Picture dogs frolicking, for this is the beach where the children and dogs can run free and no one minds the noise. Some of the women have long outgrown the sand toys and beach blanket stage, but they are here, amidst the shrieks, in their beach shoes and sensible pants throwing balls again and again for their happy, soggy dogs.

Picture another woman there, in her flip-flops with all the rest. She has her dog and her hat for being sensible, a cell phone peeking out of her pocket in case there is a chocolate-chip cookie baking disaster she needs to rush home and extinguish.

It occurs to me, this woman who I have become, that this should be my tribe. I should be feeling a sense of belonging. Instead I am feeling something like panic.

I am having a very quiet out of body experience here, at the water’s edge.

I don’t belong here.

I should be in a sports car, in Paris, with the warm wind in my hair.

I should be wearing big black intelligent-looking boots and creating Art.

I should be thinner. The kind of thin that is not about fashion, but about having a functioning metabolism, a bike, and all sorts of energy until 2 a.m.

I am not these women. I was going to be something different altogether. I am sure of this.

And yet.

The words to David Byrne’s Talking Heads song Once In A Lifetime wash up against my thoughts:

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful Wife
And you may ask yourself - well...how did I get here?

Letting the days go by / let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by / water flowing underground
Into the blue again / after the moneys gone
Once in a lifetime / water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!”

I have this beautiful life. I do.

I have arrived here, with these ordinary women, all of whom likely have an extraordinary story tucked in their pocket, right there next to the dog treats or the goldfish crackers.

I am no Lucy Jordan. There will be no re-arranging the flowers or running screaming through the shady streets.

I know exactly how I got here:

Trading bike for car so I could more easily accommodate a baby seat.

Walking though the neighbourhood with a stroller full of groceries, muffin crumbs, and a toddler bubbling with questions.

Along leaf-strewn streets, holding my daughter’s hand, day after day, one foot in front of the other, from home to school and back again.

Up and down the spiraling narrow stone stairwell of the Arc de Triomphe with the footsteps of my family echoing above and below.

Standing here at the edge of the water, throwing the ball again and again, I watch the wave roll up to my sensibly clad foot,

“ Letting the days go by / let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by  / water flowing underground
Into the blue again / in the silent water
Under the rocks and stones / there is water underground.”

and I smile as I listen to the rushing, the water turning stones over and over, smoothing the once-sharp edges, making the flecks of minerals shine, and I do know.

This is an original post for CanadaMomsBlog. EarnestGirl also writes about life & motherhood at YummyMummyClub.