In this week’s inspiration workshop, Gussy Sews recommended taking a day for play. Right, I thought. I’ll schedule that somewhere in between camp pick-ups and drop-offs, this week’s home decluttering project, my writing and editing assignments, and finally (finally!) returning some stuff to Target before the dang receipt expires. (And how many times has that happened?! I’ve lost count…)
I really couldn’t fathom where I’d fit in a playdate for me or what I’d do, exactly.
And the thought of figuring it out felt like another chore on my already un-fun to-do list.
Thankfully, a smart mama here in town had the answer ready and waiting: Monira, co-owner of reBlossom mama-baby resale shop, organized a mother’s night out at Pints & Paints, one of our local art bars. There it was! My ready-made playdate. All I had to do was show up!
Even then, I considered bailing at the last minute. My inner hall monitor went on and on about everything I was behind on since we’d been out of town, everything that needed to be done before my parents visited for the weekend, and about 60 other things that threatened to derail a few hours of fun.
There I was, back to my old bad habits. I am notorious, notorious I say!, for talking myself out of going and doing perfectly enjoyable activities. I convince myself that I have too much to do, or I’m too tired, or I’d really be better off if I just stayed home to recharge. Sure, that’s true sometimes, but not usually. Usually, once I get somewhere, I have the fun I imagined I would when I said “yes” in the first place!
So, even with that old I’m-too-tired script still playing in my mind, I hauled my soon-to-be-painting self to the car.
And, like (almost) always, I’m so glad I did. Pints & Paints owner Abby has infectious enthusiasm. She’s no painter she says (though her paintings say otherwise!), she just rocks the “bar” part of “art bar.” True enough! I had a lovely glass of chardonnay, and lots of mamas enjoyed their Terrapins (responsibly, of course!).
I got to visit with some moms I’m just getting to know, and a few I’m getting to know better, including Monira’s mom, Naomi. Turns out she’s a real artist, whereas I can flub a paint-by-number. Our seating arrangement was a good reminder to switch on my yoga brain for the night: I did my own “practice,” kept my eyes on my own “mat,” and didn’t worry about how advanced, or not, the rest of the class seemed to be.
Three hours later, I’d turned a pencil sketch (courtesy of Brian, our art pro for the night) into a masterpiece.
At least, my daughter thought so:
“Mommy,” she said in a hushed, sincere voice when she saw my painting the next morning, “Can I hang that in my room forever?”
Why yes, sweet baby girl, yes you can. The critics have spoken! I’m an artiste, and that was one fine playdate.