Reading Between The Wines

Last summer it dawned on me; I have no social life.

It's not surprising when you think about it. I'm a wife, mother of two, and full-time student. But it wasn't the absence of free time that bothered me, it was more about what I did in the precious free time I actually did have, which was absolutely nothing. Somewhere along the line I became ship-wrecked on Mom Island. Don't get me wrong, my family is the most important part of my life, but I wasn't even making an effort to have a life outside of them. Even all of my classes at the time were online. I was becoming a Grade A hermit, and it was staring to show. And not in a good way. I had less patience than usual (which is scary because I have so little to begin with!), little things bugged me more and I just had an overall aura of irritation. I was not very popular at my house, to say the least. When I began this blog, it was intended to be the hobby that I needed (and in a lot of ways it is) but it was still something I could do within the four walls of my house. I needed to get out.

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. I love the idea of traveling to another place or time period within a book. I love getting lost in a really great book, when all you want to do all day long is to pick that book back up. I love to write because I love to read. With the exception of my sister-in-law (who can literally read a book a day), I didn't know if there was anyone else out there who felt the same way I did. But I knew I was willing to find out. So I started a book club.

To call it a book club right off the bat would be generous. What it was initially was an unnamed Facebook group comprised of myself, three friends I thought might actually be interested, and about ten other people, basically chosen at random, in hopes that at least one or two of them may be interested in joining. To be social, but remain responsible to my family and school priorities, I decided that the book club would meet monthly and try to accommodate as many schedules as possible. I assigned the first book, "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell because I had read it for a class and was really inspired by it. And also, to be honest, since I had never organized or hosted a book club before, I wanted to be able to focus on planning for it instead of worrying about finishing the book on time. Five people had RSVP'd yes to the meeting and I was beginning to get nervous. What would we talk about? What if people didn't get along?

As it turns out, I needn't have worried. No, not because everyone showed up and had a blast, but because thirty minutes until go time, my phone started to ring off the hook with everyone saying they couldn't make it. I was crushed, to say the least. There's nothing that makes you feel more pathetic than sitting in your house fully prepared to host a book club when it was evident that that book club isn't going to happen. It;s the party-hosting equivalent to being all dressed up with nowhere to go. Then, just when I was really beginning to wallow in being a book club failure, there was a knock on the door. It was my high school French class friend, Marla, out of breath and an hour late, but there nonetheless.

The funny thing is, I hadn't actually seen Marla in about ten years. As I mentioned, we became friends in high school French class and I adored her back then, but, like most people after high school, we fell out of touch. So in addition to being the first book club meeting, this was our first time being face-to-face in about a decade, although to be honest, it only felt that way for the first ten seconds. Marla is the same sweet, strong and hilarious person she was in high school, only even better. She's Marla 2.0 and I think we've made up for ten years worth of time in just the last four months (but more on that later!). We wound up spending hours catching up, and of course, talking about "Julie and Julia", which she loved and was equally inspired by. That night Marla became my partner-in-crime and official co-founder of the book club (and we decided that if our book club remained a book club of two, that was just fine with us!). I consider Marla the co-founder because if she hadn't come that night, it's highly likely that I would have given up on the idea of a book club entirely and gone back to being Crabby Hermit Mom. There would never have been a second meeting (or third, forth, five, and so on) without Marla.

We regrouped, licked our wounds from the first meeting, and set about organizing the second. Our second meeting went much better. We had a group of five and it turned out that people really did have legitimate reasons for not making it to the first meeting. By the third, we really hit our stride.  Our book club is equal parts intelligent conversation, side-splitting laughter, and group therapy. We enjoy our books, our wine, and each others company. After only a couple of months, the book club was snowballing. I had other friends emailing me wanting to join and out-of-town friends who wanted to start their own book clubs. We began talking about possible names and prospective members. About this time Marla and I began the first in a series of endless conversations about accomplishing something important in life (thanks to Julie Powell and "Julie and Julia") how well the book club was going and where it had the potential to go.

Here's the thing: I hate the image of women right now. It's all about Snookie-style drunken cat fights, talking behind each others backs, and an overall focus on being hot, sexy, scandalous, blah blah blah. This isn't news to anyone, myself included, but for some reason, the image has effected me more in my twenties than any other time in my life. Maybe it's because I have a daughter and she is getting old enough to really take notice of the world around her, and it's becoming clear to me that it's just not enough to not fall into the stereotype of women myself. I want her to see an emphasis on intelligent women and for her to learn that putting women from different backgrounds with different beliefs in the same room does not have to result in a vodka-infused hair-pulling contest. Long story short, the growing, fun, diverse book club was beginning to run parallel with the incorrect image of female friendship. That's when we realized that this could be more than reading a book and drinking wine with friends once a month.

We want every woman to have a positive image of not only herself, but other women in general. Every time I leave a meeting, my sides hurt and my outlook on the world is a little brighter, and I want every woman to experience that. We don't have to be part of what we see on TV; we can be better. We can all be different people and have intelligent conversations but we can also joke around and enjoy our wine. No one is out to impress anyone else, so we can let our guards down be exactly who we are.

What began as a hobby in an attempt to regain a social life has evolved into something that feels like it could be a whole lot more. I don't want to come across as cheesy (although it may be too late for that!) but I think the world is only as good as what you contribute to it, and fighting the negative image of women with a positive one (even if it's only within our own community) feels proactive. We are encouraging anyone who is interested to join our chapter locally, or start a chapter in their area, wherever that may be.

I truly believe that together we can change the world, one book at a time.

They Say It's Your Birthday

The night Ben was born, he didn't cry. Layla came out screaming her head off, but Ben didn't make a peep. He just looked around at everything with his big eyes, yawning contentedly. When the nurse handed him to me, he looked at me like he knew exactly who I was and why we were there, reached out and grabbed my finger with his chubby hand, and squeezed. I swear I looked into his eyes and saw his soul.

Of course, that could have just been the drugs talking.

Tomorrow is Ben's second birthday and I can't shake the feeling that he's somehow lying about his age. In other words, to say that the last two years of my life (and the first two of his) have flown by would be an understatement of epic proportions. It's more like they passed like the speed of light. One day I was finding out I was pregnant, and the very next day I had a walking, talking, Toy Story-loving, block-building actual human being. He's a funny, sweet, occasionally obnoxious, always cuddly, little boy.

My baby's not a baby anymore.*
(*I feel it's necessary to the story to tell you guys that after I typed that sentence I stared at it for a few seconds, then proceeded to bawl my eyes out for the next ten minutes while cradling a visibly terrified Ben and whimpering "My baby, my baaaaby" over and over. I'm okay now.)

Don't get me wrong, Layla has grown up fast too, but for some reason, Ben feels faster. I think it was because she was first and I worried about things like hurting her when I changed her diaper, and obsessed over every milestone. The first time she farted, I wrote about it in her baby book. True story. It felt like there wasn't time or need to obsess over little things with Ben as much. By the time he came around I knew that putting a onesie on a baby in no way hurts them, and I understood that milestones are just basic guidelines, not set in stone as the name suggests. I loved him just as much, but worried so much less. Also, when someone would ask how old Layla was, I would always have a really specific "Three months, 2 weeks, and three days" kind of answer. Ben was plain ol' three months. The second I stopped functioning as a human calendar, the faster time seemed to go.

And now I find myself the day before his second birthday, watching him "fix" the case of the second season of Entourage with his red plastic hammer, occasionally running over to the window to yell "Mama! Look! Balloons!" as colorful hot air balloons float lazily by.  His bright eyes are so full of wonder and curiosity and looking at him I can't imagine him ever encountering an obstacle he can't overcome. He's the perfect man, and all I had to do was give birth to him.

Happy Birthday, Benny.