On the parts of ourselves we can never get back.
T-minus 4 months til our baby cackles their way through my p*ssy.š£
We were sitting at Retrograde Coffee with oat milk cappuccinos in little orange mugs on top of little orange saucers. My right hand entwined his left across the table. The days of just-the-two-of-us-plus-Rajah were slipping through our fingertips like sand.
The woman at the table behind us with long brown curly hair and an open-back sweater got up abruptly, took off her noise cancelling headphones, and said, āKind people, would you ā ā
I didnāt let her finish her sentence. We all need strangers to watch our expensive computers while we relieve our bladders in public places. Even though itās extraordinarily unlikely that anyone will steal them.
āOf course. Go. Go.ā I gestured with a friendly nod.
She bowed in gratitude, then scampered off.
And when she sat back down, swirling around inside me was a feeling somewhere on the spectrum between nostalgia and envy. Right in the center of my chest.
āShe's not a day over 33,ā I whispered to Seann. āAnd definitely doesnāt have kids. You can just tell.ā
He let out a quiet chuckle. Made space for me to continue.
I leaned in closer.
āYou know, I think we always want, even just slightly, the part of ourselves we can never get back. I mean, thereās gotta be a woman, 38-years-old, with a tantruming toddler at her hip, looking in on this moment weāre having. Our before-the-baby days. Our easy-escape-to-the-cafe Saturday mornings. Our leave-Rajah-in-the-car-because-we-forgot-his-leash-and-service-vest-oh-well irresponsibility. And in her chest? A warm, tense, sentimental longing.ā
āAbsolutely,ā Seann replied, squeezing my hand tighter, the soft crinkles of love around his eyes batting at mine.
Tears welled in my throat.
His turn:
āDid you ever go to coffee shops in college and sketch or write poetry about John The Regular with the pot-belly and winning scrabble streak, or the sexy barista with thick eyeliner?ā he asked. The painful joy was palpable in his tone.
āWell for one, I was the sexy barista with thick eyeliner, my love,ā I stared him down with sultry maiden eyes. Stole a beat of quiet for dramatic effect. āBut yes. Absolutely.ā
āYou know what I really want to do?ā I said.
āWhatās that?ā he asked.
I bit my lip, held back a full on sob.
āI want to go a creative coffeeshop date. No phones. Just notebooks and pastels. Our favorite pens and a few books of poetry. I want to sketch your beautiful face on a brown napkin we keep forever. Write each other love letters. Will you do that with me?ā I asked almost desperately.
He nodded his head, āOf course. Iād love to.ā
āDo you promise?ā I asked, salt water rolling down my cheek in unison with the nonstop rain flooding the streets of Sebastopol.
āYes, babe. I promise.ā
āTomorrow?ā
āTomorrowās perfect.ā
āOkay, pinky promise.ā I insisted.
The warm pad of his smallest finger locked into mine. And our eyes both teeming with the preciousness of time passing by held a steady devotional yes.
As we round the bend of a new calendar year, with t-minus four months āĀ give or take āĀ until our baby cackles their way through my pussy, Iāve been sitting into big questions around my focus, my devotion.
Should I stash a bit more cash? Make it easier on the other side to not feel pressured back to work?
Should I get that book proposal to my agent? Let her pitch me to the publishers while Iām on maternity leave?
Should I only work with clients I already know?
Should I open my doors to new business?
Should I run rituals?
A class??
Should I even work at all??!!
TRY AS I MIGHT, I have not been able to land into something clear and resonant around my work.
Because the inconvenient truth is: my work is not where my heartās daring yes is calling me in this sacred season of life.
Can I tell you just how inordinately strange and uncomfortable that is for me? The girl whoās had a job nonstop since she was not even old enough to drive? Whoās always prided herself on financial independence and stability?
Iām wrestling with the knowing that Iām not supposed to focus on growing my career at this unrepeatable moment in time.
I meanā¦ Iāve changed my Instagram bio 7 times in the last two months, attempting to name what the hell Iām doing now, professionally.
But the truth is, I donāt. really. care.
Because I donāt want to commodify this rite of passage.
Because I donāt wanna torture myself to find a way to stay packaged and neat.
Because honestly, I am gloriously alive and messier than ever.
I am expanding a whole titty size every 13 days. My under-breast tissue thatās been matted to my ribs for oh, 23 years (unbeknownst to me), is aching its way loose.
I am planning a wedding. And a Blessing Way. All in one! All at once!
And every single day, I am worshipping my belovedsā beautiful perfect cock because what if thereās not room for that later? #SOB
All I know is I donāt want to miss this moment.
Because I was brainwashed into the cult of capitalism.
Because I didnāt trust the absolute perfection of divine timing that always always happens for me around work and money, when Iām brazen enough to listen, rather than force.
All I know is I donāt want tomorrow to be our last creative coffeeshop date before the baby crowns their head through the bloody gates of my stretched-to-the-limits fate.
I want to savor every day of this era. The one my 38-year-old self will look back on with loving envy. The one Seann and I will always remember as our magical time-capsule of morning mischief under the sheetsā¦ and in public bathrooms when we weāre feeling extra frisky.
This is what really matters to me right now.
Thisā¦ and writing to tell about it.
I hope youāll read along.
Tell me, beautiful oneā¦
What era of your past do you currently feel nostalgic for?
And whatās happening in your world, exactly right now, that youāll never ever get back? That you could stand to savor just a tad bit more?
Iād truly love to hear. Press reply or share in the comments below.
Big love. Wild trust.
xoxo,
Rachael
PS āĀ Got a beloved who could use this story medicine? Sharing is caring. Forward the love. xo