A Good Collision

Partly because I am still a relatively new parent, and partly because of who I am, I still grapple almost daily with the infinite, emotionally (and sometimes physically) exhausting task of reconciling my former, non-parent self with the current version. To be honest, I still have moments when I am with both girls, feeding one and arguing with the other, getting one dressed while being serenaded by the other, when I look at them--take them both in at the same time--and think: How in god's name did this happen?

In other words, the reconciling has its good and bad days, and then there are the days when I force a head-on collision and embrace the ramifications; those days, those moments, I think are worth recording for posterity.

Last night, for example, began as a parody of the harried working mom. I had a big, important meeting at a fancy venue. I was wearing a modicum of lipstick, and I had even given myself a once-over with the lint roller. The meeting went well, better than I had expected it to, and it ran long. I had childcare until 6; I pushed open the door, having sprinted halfway home, at 6:10, made my apologies, and sank into a chair, exhausted.

But only for about 5 seconds because, of course, Annika was hungry and needed to be fed. Lily, in her nightgown but unbathed, reminded me about the birthday party we were going to the next morning, at which point I realized that I had forgotten to pick up a present. Or rather two presents. Twins. I shoveled some pureed carrots and beets into Annika, while bribing Lily to put on clothes and wash her face, a battle I won halfway. I strapped Annika--beet-stained face and all--into the stroller in her pajamas, grabbed Lily's hand while trying to ignore the fact that she was wearing a pink dressy dress and turquoise crocs and barrettes sticking out all over her head--and plunged out into the humid evening in search of gift.

While we were waiting in a line the length of the Holland Tunnel and being talked at by a surely partly crazy Israeli woman who was buying about 25 purple bras, I got a message that Ben had missed his plane home, meaning that I would have to cancel my plans for later in the evening, as I had made no alternate plans for the girls.

My plan--and believe me, it was rare that I had one--was to head down to the Lower East Side to hear the new girlfriend of an old friend sing with her new band. Have you ever met someone and found yourself thinking: Boy, would my life have been enriched by meeting this person about twenty years ago? That's how I felt when I first had dinner with my friend's new girlfriend, who also happens to have an absolutely incredible singing voice. Plus, my old friend is one of those people my life has already been enriched by knowing; we make each other crazy sometimes, but he is on a short list of people I know will always show up for me, in the most expansive definition of those words.

So in short, I really wanted to go to this show. As we plunged back out into the heavy summery air, I looked at Lily, who was in an upbeat frame of mind, having talked me into an ice cream cone from the truck on the corner, and at Annika, who was wide awake and babbling cheerfully. Almost on its own, my arm reached out, and I hailed a cab. It was quarter to 8.

As the cab pulled to a stop in front of the coffeehouse/bar, I saw a couple of really close friends standing out on the sidewalk, where the excess crowd had spilled, and I heard the sound of my new friend's rich, mellow voice over the talking and laughing, and I pushed Lily toward a familiar face and struggled to get the stroller out of the trunk while holding Annika. I met the eyes of one friend, who mouthed: You're crazy, but he was smiling, and holding out his arms, and as I set up Annika and wheeled up to the open windows, another friend slung an arm around my shoulders and placed a cold beer in my hand.

And for about an hour, I stood on the street corner in a part of town I haven't been to in years, and listened to my new friend sing, as magnetic Lily danced and glittered at the feet of the band, and mellow Annika waved and clapped and laughed from her stroller, and the sky turned from hazy dusk to sparkly twilight, and people passed in all directions and turned when they heard the music and stopped to hear more, and I felt like a best version of my former self: a person who loves live music and a cold, good beer, a person whose old friends are her best defense against her own insecurities, a person who never turns down a chance for a new experience, a person who likes to think she can be both selves all at once and have the sum be even greater than the parts somehow, a person who once in a while--way past bedtime on a hot night in May--actually proves herself right.