Last Spring, I spent an evening walking a main road through Georgetown. On the outskirts of the nation's capital, on a balmy spring evening, were hundreds of people crowding in and out of upper class shops and restaurants on a Saturday night.
I was alone with my daughter and my sister-in-law. My eldest son was a mile or so away exploring the old canals of the city with his grandfather, my other three children and husband were on the other side of the country at home.
For a moment, I lost myself in the hustle and bustle of a busy city. I daydreamed of a life filled with shopping trips to Barneys and eating at restaurants from menus that would never consider offering hamburgers and fries. I was almost giddy with the sights and sounds surrounding me. I watched lovers arm in arm, heads tilted back in laughter, shoppers carrying bags and bags of expensive contents, limousines patiently waiting, and pre-dinner cocktails being sipped. There were people everywhere.
What a life!
I kept thinking as I continued to daydream of life in this city complete with a top-floor apartment nearby and an important, executive job.
What happened next almost sounds made-up. My cell phone beeped that I had a text message and I held in my hand a picture message of my middle two children staring up at me with smiles of childhood magic and excitement, proudly holding up freshly colored Easter eggs.
In an instant my daydream ended and I wanted nothing more than to be two thousand miles from Georgetown at home, sitting at my kitchen table coloring hard-boiled eggs.
Suddenly, the sights and sounds around me lost some of their luster. The lovers didn't seem quite as in love, the laughter not as genuine, the clothing not quite as lavish, the limousines not as inviting, the restaurants not quite as appealing, and the laughter not as genuine.
I wanted nothing more than my life. My life in all of it's everydayness. Visions of dirty diapers, McDonalds Happy meals, tiny t-shirt stains to launder, the sounds of kids' unabashed laughter over passing gas, spilled milk, last minute rushes to the school bus, messy kitchen floors, and potato bugs in the back yard, suddenly filled my senses.
I chose it.
I choose it.
And I wouldn't trade it for the world.