Hold On and Let Go

When I was growing up, I frequently heard my mother says, “I forgave __________ during my first pregnancy,” “ I got over _____________ during my second pregnancy.”

The people in question were often those that had done her wrong in the past (Edie Morrison for stealing Mom’s boyfriend, Bruce Rodgers, her senior year of high school, etc.).

Over the years, I have assumed that pregnancy must be a time of great perspective and reflection. I saw gestation as a time when the enormity of the biology at hand causes other things to be trivial and meaningless.

Thus, I have been going through this First Trimester and seeing if there are things I need to “forgive” or “let go.”  I would think that I would have a few more things to “release” compared to my mother. After all, she was married at 23, had me at 27 and followed up with my brother when she was 32.

When I was 23, I was a bartender at Hooters in Santa Monica.

When I was 27, I was newly married and performing nightly at The Second City.

When I was 32, I was divorced, living in Tampa, going through a health crisis, and dating an actor.

So you know, there should be all sorts of baggage in that time.  Lots of stuff I need to let go, and move on from, and realize that my life is taking on greater importance.

Yet there really isn’t.  There were a lot of things that I held on to for a very long time. Not making it as an actor in LA was tough, but I got over it. The crappy way my ex-husband decided to turn-tail and haul-ass was the topic of a couple of years of therapy, but I now regard him with the same distain as stepping in dog shit – a disgusting inconvenience that was ultimately scraped off all at once leaving some annoying bits in the tread.

I don’t really have anything I need to get rid of or let go of or any of that stuff. In fact, if I had to take a serious look at my life and try to pinpoint when I unloaded a lot of excess baggage, it was probably right before I started dating Mr. Forty.

Huh.

My therapist would be so proud.

Perhaps in my state of “I’m really good with myself and my relationships and my past,” I got a little overzealous with goodwill towards others.

Case in point – One of my exes.

With the exception of the poo on my shoe that some might call my previous marriage, I have a pretty good relationship with guys I’ve dated.  The relationship before Mr. Forty didn’t end well, but some people have to have a scorched earth policy to keep their street cred of being tortured and miserable – so I respect that and keep my distance.

Most of my other exes are absolute peaches and I’d set them up with anybody. In fact, one of my exes was one of the first to know about Critter.  I’m dying to tell another, because I know he’ll be thrilled (and make an excellent uncle – which was always the extent of his parenting aspirations).  And then there’s my Beautiful Disaster.

The Beautiful Disaster and I had a few really good years together – really good.  We even attempting living together, which lasted exactly the course of the lease.  I adore this man. He is smart, talented, stupid good looking, charming, witty, and kind to small animals.  I’m fond of this Beautiful Disaster. Mr. Forty is fond of him too. We both wish he wasn’t such… a… a… Beautiful Disaster.

This became painfully apparent this past weekend. I had spent most of the day doing what I do best lately – laying on the couch and sighing dramatically.  Sometimes I like to switch it up and drink apple juice at the same time.

There I was, being fatigued and watching Dirty Dancing. Mr. Forty was making snide remarks about the pinnacle movie that defined my youth and remains a sacred text in my heart. It was, a fairly standard Saturday.  I went to check facebook, because I have a facebook problem, and I noticed that the Beautiful Disaster was posting what could best be described as “Thinly Veiled Cries For Help.”

And I made the mistake of texting him.

What ensued would best be described as an “intervention” if by “intervention” we mean “stopping a really drunk maudlin man from being overly dramatic and manipulating a former girlfriend into believing that (what would later be revealed as) a pellet gun, was in fact a chosen instrument to bring about death.”

That kind of intervention.

And now you see how he lives up to his name.

So quite a few frantic phone calls and a activating a group of us that all know and love the B.D. we had him at least in a place where we knew he would soon pass out and not remember much in the morning. All in all, it was about three tense hours followed by complete exhaustion.  Happy Saturday Night!

In the course of it all I realized a few things:

• Goddamn I married well.  Mr. Forty was a champ through the whole thing. Helpful, thoughtful, and 100% focused on making sure Beautiful Disaster didn’t do anything stupid(er).
• My friends are good in a crisis and I’m proud to have spent the better part of two decades with some of them, and more than a decade with the rest of them.  We are a crew.
• I’m getting to fucking old for crisis.

And it’s that last bit that got me thinking…  My mother let go of baggage, she let go of hurt, loss, betrayal. But I think I might be letting go of the drama. It’s time to let go of the sagas that plague our lives. We are a theatrical group – defined by the nature of the art we all love – and the fact that none of us (NONE) have children.  I will be the first in a close knit group of 10-15 folks to spawn a child.

I may be one of the last.

We fill our lives with the day-to-day activities of our dogs and cats (of which we have scores of animals between us). We worry about friends we see “in trouble” (like the Beautiful Disaster). We debate the merits of various craft beers.  We strategize our careers. We produce great theater.  We get caught up in crisis when it occurs and you will not find a more loyal group of people to come to your aid. Because all we have are each other.  It’s all we’ve had for as long as we can recall our adult lives. We have each other’s back.

And now? Now I will have a teeny tiny back I have to watch over. I love my friends, but I will have Critter. While I daydream about sitting at our favorite biergarten with a sling and modestly breast feeding while drinking a new summer pale ale – the truth is – I have no idea how my friends are going to respond to this distraction.  Maybe the days of sitting and drinking a beer won’t include the new mom.  Maybe the new mom won’t want to spend a day drinking beer.   I really don’t know.

We all get together for Thanksgiving. We always have. Somehow, over the years, we’ve managed to prepare and train our families to see us at Christmas.  Thanksgiving is for family. The family that we chose for ourselves.  My crew loves their family – most have really good relationships with their parents – but we long ago set aside Thanksgiving as a time for us to appreciate one another and the bonds we share and the things we have endured. Ironically, over the years the only variable was usually my date.  That changed three or four times (which still isn’t so bad when you look at a decade of turkeys).

This year I will change things up again. Thanksgiving will mark the end of the First Trimester. Do I make the big announcement?  Do they already know?  What will be their reaction?

My mother let go of things she didn’t need when she was pregnant.

And here I am, finding myself holding on so tight.