This weekend I received a lovely surprise visit from my Bestie. We have been best friends since 1987 so I am quite certain that she knows more about me than anyone else on this planet. She was there when I met Farmer Bob, she was there when I married Farmer Bob, she’s always there when I need her to be. Always. As we were talking above the screams of our children it dawned on me how much we all need that one friend, or group of friends, that simply understand. That listen without judging or criticizing. That give advice without being condescending and that laugh when we need them to laugh. That aren’t afraid to tell us to shut the hell up when we aren’t making any sense. That may not always agree with what we are saying, but are willing to listen anyway. That give us that little reminder that we aren’t alone.
Before you get all worried about Farmer Bob and his feelings, I’m not talking about significant others here. I’m talking girl. friends. Farmer Bob does many of those things (especially telling me to shut my pie-hole), but you know as well as I do that there is just nothing like venting to a girlfriend about “things”. He doesn’t want to talk about my saggy boobs and my menstrual cycle. He doesn’t give two shits about what kind of laundry detergent I use or what I put in that salad. Unless it has to do with tractors, grains, cows, or sex he just doesn’t really care. I probably shouldn’t say he doesn’t care because he does, but you girls know what I mean. <speaking of shutting my pie-hole…NOW, do it NOW>
There is something relaxing about sitting on the couch or around a table with your girlfriends. Something that releases those tight muscles and loosens the tongue, and I’m not just talking about the effects of the wine. You lose some of your inhibitions and the words start to spill out of you like the milk out of the jug when your toddler drops that full gallon on the kitchen floor. When it’s just you and your amigas, nothing is off-limits. Only with the girls do you feel comfortable talking about the post-childbirth floppy butterfly, or the fact that you have to pick up your boobs in order to fit them securely in your bra. No one else but the girls can relate to the fact that while you may be losing hair from the top of your head, you are finding it on your lip, or your chin, or your <insert random body part here> .
No one but other mommas ‘get it’ when you mention something about your desire to tell your kids to quit being inconsiderate assholes or wanting to scream at them to just PICK UP THEIR SHIT. The dads, they get it, honestly they do, but it’s different. They have a gift that we just don’t. The magical ability to ignore. Ignore all the asshole behavior until the magnitude of assholeyness has reached a level that even the hubs himself could not surpass. Asshole level: Defcon 5. This is not going to be pretty. One massive explosion of orders and dad has his offspring cleaning faster than a crew of Merry Maids. If I were to attempt to use this method, PITA would probably flash me a quick view of his wiener and run off and dump out a bucket of Legos while laughing his cute little meniacal laugh.
When we are having one of those shittastic mothering days or feeling like a less than stellar wife, it is hearing those equally horrifying stories from your friends that make you feel less like a failure and more like a normal person. It is knowing that you aren’t the only one cleaning boogers off your television or walking away from lunch because your toddler is throwing a tantrum over the way you cut up his hot dog. Realizing that your friend also shoves Cookie Crisp in her mouth as she’s walking out the door because there wasn’t time to eat a better breakfast. Having that ‘A HA’ moment when an amiga tells you that she just doesn’t feel like being touched in a sexy way after being groped by an octopus all day long. There is a feeling of normalcy that overtakes you knowing that your kid isn’t the only one to take a dump on the sidewalk or that you aren’t the only one that gets tired playing cruise director and party planner.
So I guess where I was going with this is that if you don’t have you some girlfriends that you can dish with, you have GOT to get you some. As my bestie said so eloquently after our visit, “ just a few hours with my bestie is like a massage, therapy session and a Xanax all rolled into one”. You don’t get better than that.
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