I appear to be having a mild nervous breakdown. It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure. But just in case, steer clear of bell towers for the next few days.
See, last weekend we were all supposed to go to North Carolina to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ with my in-laws, but my daughter got sick. Being one of those helicopter moms that believes in not leaving a child behind while I’m in North Carolina feasting on Peeps and celebrating the Joy of Jesus, I stayed behind with her in NYC.
So there we were, alone in New York City.
Our apartment has never been quieter or cleaner.
You could eat off the toilet seats. If you were a pervert, I mean.
My daughter was sick, but the kind of sick where she would cough twice, ask for a Mocha Decaf Frappuccino and read a gossip magazine about the cast of Glee. (I strongly disapprove. I seem to have an allergy to Leah Michele that is almost as strong as the one I have to Jane Seymour. Yuck.)
I promptly proclaimed myself pre-sick and took to my bed.To watch Sex and The City reruns on TV.
I was a loyal Sex & The City viewer. I had loved creator Candance Bushnell’s column in The New York Observer, where she’d written about Big as having a fax machine in his bathroom in The Hamptons. (I’m pretty sure it was Big. It may have been Medium.)
I loved the series unapologetically, I adored Carrie and Miranda, especially. Although when the series premiered in June 1998, I was a month away from giving birth to my oldest child, I found the characters relatable. Not in their fashion or sexcapades, obviously, but in their friendships, their dinners and lunches and cocktails. Their discussing everything that until then seemed unmentionable.
I loved them for being unapologetic, for making it in the big city, for having great shoes.
So it was a huge shock, when last weekend I curled up to watch an episode, my first since the series ended in 2004 (when my kids were five and two).
I couldn’t relate. Oh, I still related to the cocktails and the friendships. But as Carrie flitted about New York City, a new purse on her arm in every scene, one thought distracted me.
Why doesn’t she call her mother?
Why don’t any of them call their mothers?
The women who gave them life?
The women who took care of them, stayed up endless nights, worried about them, loved them, and who that very moment were missing them, albeit it off-screen.
Yes. I’m Marinka and my daughter is going to be thirteen in a few months.
I see the writing on the wall.
Thank God she still needs me to get her Frappuccinos.
One year ago ...
- The Friendship Club - 2013