For a few moments on Saturday night, the house was quiet. Tom had already taken off with the kids before book club began, and the tribe of women had not yet shown up. And I carefully and quietly lit candles and enjoyed the few moments of silence, a rare and lovely sound. And the house was clean and the beef bourguignon that I had painstakingly made following each and every one of Julia's directions simmered in the kitchen.
A few more moments and friends filled the space and we replaced the silence with conversations about education and about transgender identity and about the ethics of eating meat. And as expected, we talked about the book, Memory Garden, because we take pride in being a book club that actually discusses the book. Eventually the talk moved to childbirth and fertility, as it always seems to on these evenings, which only makes sense since there always seems to be a new baby and at least one more on the way. I guess this is what it means to be in your thirties?
When there are so many conversations-- huddled in the kitchen, gathered around the coffee table, tucked into the dining room corner-- it's hard to grab the camera and remember to capture the women whose company I so value. They may have teased me for the lack of friends that don the photo magnets that cover my fridge, still I talked rather that click.
The rest of the weekend included eating lots of leftovers and some sister induced inertia. Nothing saps my motivation like a few sisters next door who happen to be doing gloriously little with their morning or evening.
It's back to work for two more weeks before Christmas break. So far my December blues have been held at bay. In fact, I'm actually feeling downright cheery from time to time. Oh the power of faking ittill you make it.