I’ve written about the village before. You know, that mystical place where woman accept each other at face value, and chat about their differing parenting techniques over a wine cooler, while the kids
eat dirt and fight play?
Since writing that post a few months ago, not a lot has necessarily changed, with the exception of discovering that when it comes to gaining entry into the village, I am my own worst enemy.
As I talked about last week, we recently had a pregnancy scare that has kept me sidelined since. My days pretty much consist of waking up, walking to the couch, and laying back down while I field worried texts from family members, breathe through sets of contractions, and watch in awe as my husband turns into Mr. Mom and absolutely crushes it around the house.
Friends and family have come out of the woodwork to pass along their well wishes, kindness, and support, offering everything from taking our daughter off our hands for a bit, to bringing over food. My husband even surprised me with brownies last night, which, since the great Ice Cream/Potato Skulduggery Incident of 2013, was nothing short of an olive branch being offered in the face of and act that was unquestionably dessert treason worthy of a life time ban on surprise sweets.
Sitting there, chatting with a good friend and eating a brownie (or three…don’t judge, I’m still pregnant), it suddenly hit me: I have a village. Sure, we aren’t the kind of village that will run naked through a corn field after a day of wine tasting and gossiping about, you know, crockpot recipes, but it’s a village none the less, and one comprised of the very best kind of people. Not to mention, I’m not a huge fan of being naked, and I really hate running, which makes this village — my village– even better.
But oddly enough, since coming to this realization, accepting my own admission into the village has been the hardest part of all, because, as I’m discovering, being in a village means you both give and receive help. Anyone watching my face as I handed the grocery list AND our toddler to my very willing and insistent husband at 5:00pm on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, would have thought I was passing a kidney stone. The thought of letting someone do something for me makes me feel about thirty-five different kinds of yucky on the inside. And don’t even get me started on asking for help. But it’s this balance of giving and receiving, and the authenticity that comes with allowing our imperfections to show, that make the village the warm fuzzy place it is.
So this Thanksgiving I am offering up thanks to my village. Thanks for your kindness, patience and repeated offers of help. Thank you for your calls, emails and texts, reminding me in the most gentle way possible you are here (and have been all along), ready to spring into action if needed. Thank you for allowing me to be horribly, painfully, and awkwardly stubborn while I learn how to accept your help and love. Pretty soon everything will be back to normal, and we can revisit that naked run through the corn fields. Or, you know, maybe not.