Leading My Own Miniature Village, in the Land of the Crazy Sun

Thatched rooves all in a circle, filled with loving grandmotherly types trotting babies on their knees. It’s a nice image. There is something to be said about the village. You always hear that saying. “It takes a village.” People that live in cities without extended family quickly realize the saying isn’t true. It doesn’t take a village to raise children...or does it?

I thought this yesterday afternoon while I drove myself around town, alone. My mom came into town—one of the few people I trust to watch my kids—and she encouraged me to go Christmas shopping. So I drove around town, staring at the blue sky and thinking about…my children. I ate some of the chocolate purchased for their stockings. It reminded me of Easter.

A spherical world.

I then had a nice conversation with one of the employees at the thrift store…about my children. I had a weird conversation with the lady in front of me at the checkout line, which I attribute to the fact that it was not about my children. When you are the matriarch of a four person village, there is one subject that comes natural all the time, and the rest don’t.

So then I swung by the doctor’s office to pick up an order for blood work, because when can I ever run an errand like that without having to buckle kids out of car seats? I stood there waiting on the receptionist, staring at the TV screen next to me. They were trying to sell me on a disturbing gynecological procedure and I was losing more trust in my doctor every second that ticked by, when suddenly the receptionist spoke. My head swiveled back to attention rapidly, and the words tumbled out of my mouth rapid-fire, having been caught off guard. I read her face as she handed me the order. Yep, that one needs this test—definitely hyperthyroid. It’s the hormones’ fault, raking over the thyroid during the wild ride of pregnancy, birth, and the postpartum. Village, or no village; healthy thyroid or hypothyroid, mothers soldier on.

Down the bridge and the blue, blue, blue sky.

I went home then, and while grandma played with her grandchildren, I walked the dogs alone. It had been the first cold night of the season. I love how the cold rushes against my face as I walk out into it. Old Man Dog sniffed the cold grass, wearing his Christmas sweater. The dog sweater makes us look like the frilly sort of people that paint their dogs’ toenails. Rather, it is about functionality. The poor dog is southern through and through—he shivers all winter long, even in the house. I thought on how babied the dogs were, before the children arrived. I felt a sense of relief. I'd reconciled my thoughts.

Some of us are born caretakers. It gives us pleasure to love and cater to our loved ones’ needs, putting others first. There is nothing wrong in devoting my existence toward motherhood, when that is the way I was born. Society loves the idea of the village. Shuffle the kids off with the babysitter every Friday night, so that you are free. Put them in preschool as soon as possible, so that you get a break. Motherhood is one phase of life, and its requirements lessen as the years flutter by. An opportunity to walk the dog alone, or a chance to eat Santa’s chocolate undetected of course is necessary occasionally. But more than that?

I like crazy sun photos, in case you hadn't already surmised that.

I’m just fine leading my own miniature village.