From now on, you're only someone that I used to know...

Dear Bootsy,

Hi there. You don’t know me by name but we met this morning. I had just gotten out of my vintage Honda CRV and was making my way down a short path when you pulled up. I noticed you right away, as you walked towards me, with your straight legged jeans, your Jcrew top, nested under your puffy white North Face vest. Your Red Sox cap pulled low, your Hunter Wellies knee high. For all the world you needed a riding crop.

I saw you hustling your son, may be 3, in front of you with his Gap shirt, his miniature Sox hat, his Keene mocs and his tiny denims too. You were late. Not dramatically, in fact, just under 4 minutes. Late for the organic farming lecture and the wee walk around the farm. I saw you walking towards me as I stood on the path, buckling my sling at my hip. I was in an illfitting pair of leggings, not meant to be worn as pants, with a pink sleeveless tank top, not flattering to my heavier figure. Ive slept in this outfit, although I didn’t last night. Just before you came, I took off my “Past Season UnderArmor Waffle Hoodie in Charcoal” I think you would have liked it. I remember you so clearly, not because you were so pretty, but because as you cut between my and my three children on a path surrounded on both sides by more path, you looked at me, up and down, scornfully. And when I looked directly back at you and said “Hello” brightly and loudly, you walked by.

As I turned to swing my son up, I saw your retreating back. You looked great. Stylish, glossy, neither too thin nor heavy by any standard, even the harshest. I didn’t see you take your sons hand, but I did see you with him, and you made your way to the table. I was shortly behind you. My three not dressed as well. One shoe off, no sunblock, bare headed. My littlest in a dirty tshirt, the neckband stained with a bit of chocolate granola. My daughter made her way through the mommy bodies and found a seat at the picnic table, my sons stayed in my arms. Both did. At just under 30lbs each. 60pounds of tiny wriggly smelly yelly boys. One sought my keys, the other my sling, and for a minute as I cradled my sons head I had the fleeting thought that I remember this shape, from when he was lodged under my right rib. My ribcage still misshapen because of it. I kissed him. Another dad was watching. A gorgeous lumberjack of an organic hipster dad with his equally naturally stunning wife. I hoped they saw how much I loved him. Not for my own vanity but because someone somewhere should know how much. You were somewhere in front on me. Not angry, but not warm. Just taking up the tiny bit of space in the universe that you inhabit. At some point the brief lecture ended. Our guide suggested we walk, and as the last in the circle, I was the first to start up the hill. I knew from behind I was bisected in two, muffin top, arms jowly, two heads cresting above my shoulder, my daughter running ahead. I knew I looked bad, unattractive, unkempt. Not natural as in organic like the farm, just slatternly natural.

It was hot. The sun was shining and although I fretted about sunblock I was glad – glad I took off the hoodie, glad to be cool, glad my maryjane loafers had ventilation. It was hard, carrying 60 pounds across a rutted field at 9;10 am in the hot spring sun, trying to find a foothold through straw and weeds, keeping an eye of my daughter, keeping my pace, knowing that two dozen mothers were behind me. I slung my son up – over once, twice and back again, each time clearing my other sons head. Trying to entertain both and I trudged. Grateful I didn’t bring a stroller, wishing for a back carrier, happy to give them the experience, and thrilled beyond measure that even heavy, even carrying 60lbs, even in the hot hot sun, I made it there first. Not winded. You were about 9 people behind me. Later I was almost directly next to you. You ignored me. Not even a ghost smile or a nod. You may have seen my daughter, standing but for one next to the teacher. Peering into her hands, looking over the fence, not leaning. Absorbing the lessons. On chickens, on gullets, on beaks. Maybe you saw her enter the chicken ring, with over 60 chickens milling about. Walking slowly as directed and gently cradling the eggs during her turn. Or maybe you didn’t see me because you were fanning yourself. Hot. Looking at your cell, talking to your friend. You son was crying. Whining actually. He was hot. Thirsty. Something. Likely you had water for him although I left mine in the car. My daughter bareheaded run back and back again for more feed, then sitting on the ground in chicken shit to cuddle her tiny brother. Her brother who is frantic indoors yet insanely serene outside. My nature child who balances out in the wind.

As we walked away I heard someone, maybe you, wondering how much longer, where next, that it was hot. I felt it too. It was hot. My belly was sweating with my on riding close, my feet dusty. I walked behind everyone this time, to give my sweet boys some time to calm down. Somewhere my daughter ran ahead. I trusted she’d follow the teacher, I trusted that Id see her come back, I trusted she wouldn’t miss me. You would never have left your son but I did, striking out on the little path back to the car for water, for snacks. And about 10 minutes later there you all were. My daughter somewhere in the middle of you all, gazing ahead looking for me, and I looking for her. As she ran to me she chirped about the birds, the pigs, the sheep. I chirped about water, her feet, was she hungry. She chattered on, excited, bold, proud. I swept her up into the car, the boys screaming delightedly to see her. Five more minutes we spent, tailgating in the back, with spare clothes and a yardsale stroller jamming the space. With not enough snacks to satisfy but enough to share, then into the back of the car littered with books, a puppet, 4 pairs of shoes, everyone in various stages of yelling, of fighting, of chortling. As we drove out behind the dust flying off the tires of the legions of Honda Pilots and upscale SUVs, we in our 2001 beater were happy, dirty, windblown and hungry, the radio turned too loud to the Barenaked Ladies “Snacktime”.

I knew on some level Id have to pay the piper at home. 3 tubs, vacuum the car. I know that the bags would have to be unpacked and repacked. I knew that in just a few hours the boys would need more – a water table, a park playdate, fresh diced fruit some entertainment to pull us all though until late afternoon and cooler weather. I knew I had to feed my daughter. To look up camps, to call the contractor. I knew the my first world problems would still be at home, and that for all that a 9am farm tour seemed wonderful, 1 pm was going to hit hard.

I knew all those things and I knew that if you noticed me at all, you’d have remembered a fat woman that was a mess. What I'll remember is just how great a mother I am.

Im not sure where you were though.
I had forgotten about you.