You Wish You Were Me
Because I'm going to Seattle today. Therapist L has graciously agreed to come along so that Leelo's routine won't be too interrupted, which means that Seymour and I will not have to spend the entirety of our visit in Standard Vacation Siege mode. (Meanwhile I entreat the Powers That Be to lull both Leelo and Mali to sleep during reasonable hours and with minimal fuss.)
My generous in-laws have, as usual, opened up their home to not only us and our entourage but to my friends, so Seymour is going to finally meet Teams SJ and Elswhere. I can't wait to see all our kids splashing around in the yard that my SIL has apparently turned into a water theme park.
And I can't wait to see my little ballerina Iz so I can gauge the extent of the tutu damage (or lack thereof), and do triage if necessary. Or I could simply chill and enjoy her honest and innocent delight in going to camp with her cousin.
Normally I approach these trips with considerable trepidation, especially when my SIL is there as she is everything glossy parenting mags tell mothers to be: Smart, beautiful, thin, competent, kind, and loving. Kind of like my MIL. Usually I would be grumbly about being in an environment in which mainstream beauty stereotypes are not only celebrated but fulfilled by everyone except me.
But today I'm not worrying about anyone's expectations but my own. I was thinking of bringing a pocket Stuart Smalley, but fuck him--he's annoying. I don't need excuses today, I don't need to list preemptive complaints. I don't need to worry about anything except having fun with a family who loves me and whom I adore right back even though we're each other's lifestyle aliens.