I found myself in an email exchange, earlier today, wherein a faraway friend and I began planning a hypothetical movie date. Did we discuss which flick we were dying to see? Compare the relative merits of stadium seating vs. a more traditional moviehouse? Drool over our favorite actors/actresses? Go ahead and indulge our inner geeks to pick apart the mechanics of our favorite special effects?

Nope.

We mailed back and forth about the popcorn. And the Junior Mints, and Twizzlers, and I shared a charming tale from my youth involving those little wax bottles you chew up to get at the milliliter of rancid kool-aid ensconced within.

(In case you wonder: the correct camp is LOTS O BUTTER. Any other answer, and don’t even bother coming to the movies with me.)
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1/2 an umbrella. They say it’s an entire umbrella, just really small; but I have my doubts.

1 nightgown. Perfectly acceptable. My children understand that sleep makes me happier than almost anything else.

1 unidentifiable gardening-type carrier… thing. Tags removed; mystifying. It has snaps in weird places. Is it meant to be worn? Hung? Attached… somewhere? No one seems to know. (The ex: “Well it’s for your gardening, um, stuff. I think.”)

1 card made at school where “Happy Mother’s Day Mama” had been pencilled by a teacher, than traced over painstakingly with wobbly blue marker.

5 pieces of fusilli glued to paper and backed by a magnet. Cuz nothing says Mother’s Day like pasta you can stick to the fridge.

4 english muffin halves with triple berry swirl cream cheese. They said they’d share with me. They lied. I went to church hungry.

3 carnations. One in every color. One for each of us.

2 major spills. (“Why did you have a cup of water in the playroom, anyway?” “I was thirsty. Duh.”)

942 buttons pushed. So. Tired.

1 migraine. (The umbrella wasn’t a whole lot of consolation, but the hugs and kisses helped a little.)

“I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as a member.”
–Groucho Marx

When I miscarried (many years ago), I discovered the secret sisterhood of women who mourn for lost children. It seemed as though everyone had a story to share, and I was drawn close by those who understood. It was not a club to which I ever would’ve chosen to belong. But there was comfort in knowing I was not alone. It’s a queer sisterhood, with bonds that transcend the progression and rituals of “normal” relationships. I have had occasion, over the years, to open my arms to others who are where I was, back then; and the feeling that it engenders in me more than anything, to do this, is strength.

At first, when I found myself on the long road of divorce (anyone who tells you it’s not a long road is lying), I thought I’d stumbled upon a similar clandestine club. Slowly, women came out of the woodwork to bolster me. When I was down in the pit, support often came from unlikely sources. Oh, I thought. I remember this. I know how this works. Thank goodness. Only this club is different.

Where I once drew strength from a membership I never asked for, I now find myself sometimes feeling like it’s time to “pay my dues” to an association that just keeps forwarding my bill no matter how many times I move.
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