Opposites Attract

The sun pelts the concrete. Screams and laughter pierce the air. Maura and Rachel giggle in the lounge chair they share. Young girls on opposing sides of age seven, they are so dedicated to snack time at the pool, and whatever it is that seven-year old girls whisper when their Mothers are not listening. Maura is jealous because Rachel gets a two-piece suit; Rachel doesn’t dare to jump off the high dive like her friend. Sarah gets her own chair, but gives up corners to the bouncing boy around her. Marty is smitten, all brown puppy dog eyes and jumping around his “best friend in the whole world” to prove it. Sean is a blueberry newton eating-machine. He needs no audience and doesn’t have a clue he is the odd man out at the pool.

And the Mothers. How did we get here from there? Cut to camera two and another lounge chair almost twenty years ago. This time an overstuffed falling-apart deal and a council meeting for our college club in the upper room of the Chapel. It was me that was amazed by this poet, this writer with all of the answers. I was the one jumping around like a puppy dog back then.

And the calendar pages have spun us to this point at the pool. It’s the big things I remember most vividly.

She asks the question noone else will ask. Is it over? Are you NOT going through with this? We are in my third floor apartment on the questionable side of town. The aroma of burnt toast and Downy mingles with the smell of pot and drifts up through my door. I am a huddled mess, and there is Laura making my shattering engagement seem livable. A few days later, I am in a ball in my parent’s basement, her voice in my ear on the phone. Her mantra of calm. Her prayer for me: everything will be okay.

And it was.

Then came the babies. And the hormones. And the sobbing…..of the Mother. It was Laura I called, day upon day upon day. This baby won’t eat. What are these red bumps? He just won’t stop crying. Tylenol or Motrin? Why won’t he sleep?
I was covered in puke, painstakingly dressing the wiggling mass of my daughter….or my sons. Laura was the voice of reason in those sleep-blurred days. Who else would put your breast pump together? Or keep answering the calls of a crazy lady even after checking the caller I.D.?

Now the babies are not babies and the crumpled ball in the basement is standing tall. But I still am yapping like a puppy dog, amazed by her medical knowledge, her faith, her resilience. I admire her love of home. Sometimes I just wish I could sit still, give up the running and be comfortable in my own skin. What exactly am I looking for? I envy how she has found it in her taco spaghetti nights, her chopped-to-perfection salads, her homemade cinnamon scones.

We’ve come a long way since those college days. We have twirled through jobs and homes and beliefs. Our hair is grayer and our laughter is quicker, I think. We know what life is about. And its funny how you get what you want: those two young women so many years ago, with their ferocious need to change the world, have done just that with these beautiful children lounging by the pool.