tutus, Mersault, and just being enough.

There was a moment last week when I nearly broke down; tension bombarding my chest, emotions wading through my brain, tears burning my eyes with memory.  It took everything in my soul to keep the stream from breaking the dam I’ve created in my mind, one wrought with the ferved pieces of life I’ve tended to stash away over the years.  My walls are thick, y’all. 

I watched as my little princess danced the night away in her sparkly pink tutu, carefree and oblivious to the world around her.  The glean in her eye shined from the stage so brightly, like a distant comet projecting through the sky: even though a quick glimmer, the brilliant light is a travesty to miss.  My little girl was so happy.  And I was overcome with affection, caught between knowing true joy and the realization that I, too, am engaged in a delicate dance. 


The balance of time equity is fragile, with my heart and head generally pulling in three different directions at once, my body twisted and turned until my back is slammed against the wall.  The clock is ticking. Time will eventually run out.  Little girls will only wear tutus for so long.  


I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: being a working mother parent is hard. The pressures to surpass expectations during the day, coupled with the self-imposed high standards of home life, (and don’t forget the ever-increasing societial squeeze of personal perfection!), can be almost too much to bear.  Something has to give.  And usually it’s me. Let’s just say my yoga mat is lonely, y’all. (chocolate, anyone?)

The sommelier often wonders why I have so much pent up jealousy for his work trips to France, Spain, or Italy.  In truth, these trips are actually work for him, but I imagine fields of vineyards against a setting sun, full of grapes waiting to be harvested, as if gentle waves in the ocean were washing against his feet.  I long to travel there with our tiny dancer, showing her the beauty in the earth, tasting the sour skins that will eventually turn into a favorite vintage of deliciousness.  And I know someday we will… but not now. Not yet. 


For now I close my eyes as I imagine the old chateaus of Beaune glittering in the sun, dotting the landscape with their bright tiled roofs. Beckoning. 


For now I sip on a Premier Cru Mersault from Francois Mikulski, the crisp, lightly acidic Chardonnay glides down my throat in anticipation of summer, the thin veils of melon mingling in the minerality of the region.  My palate is electrified. 


And suddenly I remember; knowing that I am doing the best I can, claiming my weekdays and time in the most productive way possible, while balancing zoo visits and enticing new foods on the weekends. I have to be enough. Just balancing. Teetering. Realizing that even though I may claim to be, I am not superwomanI, me, myself… have to be enough.  

And in her eyes, I am.  She thinks I’m a queen.  And that’s all that matters, y’all. 

Happy Mother’s Day.  Cheers.  

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