Political talk notes a “war on women.” That leads to talk of mommy wars. Remember those? Evidently they aren’t much of a thing anymore. Girls today believe they will work to provide for a family.
There was a time when battle lines were clearly drawn. Working moms were on that side and stay-at-home moms on the other. Accusations flew willy-nilly. Working moms were little more than dads and someone else was raising their kids. Stay-at-home moms were lazy girls who went to school for an MRS and ate bon-bons. What the hell is a bon-bon? Does anyone know? As a girl who posted her chair firmly on the fence, I know the truth. Nobody was right and the war was much like Vietnam. No winner. Ever.
Girls who have done both say going to work is easier when they are tiny tikes; gooey, dirty and throwing themselves on the floor at Target. But being at home when they’re big and pretty self-sufficient is a lifestyle a girl could get used to. This girl was just settling in when The Norwegian died on a sunny afternoon in the woods. Halcyon days of tennis, ladies lunches and afternoon pedicures came to a halt. Business clothes replaced workout wear and overtime replaced part time in the blink of an eye.
Friday reminded me. Memories flood as the day unfolds: Hair in the morning, lunch with girlfriends and doctor appointment in the afternoon. Worked late Thursday and did some power hours over the weekend. Always a trade off for the good stuff.
Except for the doc. That was hearing aids. Hearing robber chemotherapy is not returning the goods and Dr. H says its time. Who knew? It’s a tiny microphone in the ear. Can’t see it and the bonus is you can hear conversation across the room. Keep that in mind next time we’re in the same restaurant dolls.
As I glance about the room where The Goddess, River Rafter and Sweetest G gather for food, wine and updates I wonder at the women in the room. It’s a Scottsdale restaurant packed with ladies every day. Gentlemen rarely frequent without someone in a dress on their arm. Ruffled chintzes, outdoor gardens and an assortment of bellinis define its nature. I don’t think there’s a beer on the menu. Of course, I’ve never looked. Pfft.
There are no moms with little ones and anyone with spit up on her shirt brushed it off in the car leaving no clue as to the collective history of the women seated here and there. No badges identify one from another—bad mom, good mom, working mom, stay at home mom.
I see it on the faces of strangers as plainly as I see it on the faces of my companions as they share stories of children, work, vacation and downtime. There are only smiles and support and joy in spending the afternoon together.
Why don’t we do this more often? Could it be children and work and vacation and downtime? Or could it be that we are like the women of Congress? You know, the great eastern snowstorm last week? The entire chamber was filled only with women—women reps, women pages, women staff. Perhaps the bottom line is that we are just so badass we can pencil in lunch, hmmm, next month perhaps?