On the other side of goo

A non-cockroach metamorphosis story

Last week I was on a red eye to New York with my husband–the first time we’d flown on a plane together in six years. Our last adventure was to Ireland in 2019 while I was pregnant with our first child.

A baby, a pandemic, another baby…none of it conducive to traveling child-free. However, the pandemic subsided, and somehow both babies grew old enough to be left with their grandparents for more than a night, and even further away than a couple of hours’ drive. Flash forward (or rewind, I suppose) to last week, and I had four full days to be completely me.

And it was absolutely wonderful. There wasn’t a single day I stayed out of my hotel for less than 12 hours, and I fell into bed every night completely, blissfully, sweaty, and exhausted. For almost 100 hours straight, I was reunited with parts of the old me. Boy, did I miss her.

Before we left for the trip, hurriedly rushing around packing and prepping the house, we noticed a patch of milkweed our son had planted two years ago was exploding with fat Monarch caterpillars. We shouldn’t have been too surprised; it’s the very reason we wanted to intentionally plant more milkweed after a volunteer plant delightfully brought a dozen caterpillars our way a couple of years ago. We excitedly bought an enclosure and watched our new pets transform before our eyes. A fun activity for the children, we thought, but it was my husband and I who became obsessed – Googling everything we could about the entire Monarch lifecycle for a month. (We know way too much.) Once we released our last butterfly of the season, the enclosure left in the side yard slowly broke down from scorching heat, heavy rains, wind, and, of course, ash.

How many caterpillars can you count?

Last year’s monarch season came and went without a single caterpillar. We sort of forgot the whole thing until last week. With our old enclosure in a sorry, unacceptable state, my husband scrambled to find one on OfferUp for $25, a half hour away. I told him it was worth it; make the drive. Take out the trash, close the windows, prepare supplies for the cats–– and set up a home for twelve caterpillars.

When we returned from our trip, nine of them had gone into chrysalis–already turned to goo. Once again, their metamorphosis compelled me to reflect upon my own.

Two years ago, almost to the day, I wrote a newsletter about our first crop of butterflies. Re-reading it now seems like a quaint memory. I empathize with that person struggling to survive a tsunami of caretaking and responsibility, while holding on to any shred of the person she used to be. In the essay, I ruminated on freedom before children, the cost of “having it all,” and ultimately succumbing to the goo that was my life. I knew one day it wouldn’t feel like I was being broken down and transformed.

Who knew that would be today, two years later? I remember the person who wrote the essay, and who she was before her life shrank to an unrecognizable size, all in the name of service to others. While I see glimpses of both, depending on the day, I recognize that I am no longer either of them. Somehow, even though it’s all still hard, I’m on the other side of the goo.

It hit me that between last month’s stellar lineup of graduating from my master’s program, celebrating my 40th birthday, and this trip to New York, I hadn’t had anything special to look forward to for years. I am not exaggerating. It had been years and years since I saw the light of fun at the end of the tunnel. Sure, I had the occasional fun dinner or quick trip, but nothing that was purely for fun for ME.

And let me tell you. It was FUN. I threw a dance party with my closest friends and hired a DJ to play only the music I loved.

I splurged on a stay at the Disneyland Hotel, where my son wished on the fireworks he watched from the window for more days at the hotel.

I flew to New York and was reminded that my husband can create the most spontaneous fun, be the best museum docent, and be a shoulder to lean on in the subway after a day of walking. I met up for delicious meals with old friends, new friends, and even internet friends!

I was reminded of who I used to be, and made aware of who I’ve become. I have often described traveling without kids as time traveling. The few times I’d traveled after becoming a parent always felt like I’d been transported to 2018, or an alternate timeline when my children and responsibilities didn’t exist–a surreal feeling.

This trip was different. It didn’t feel like time-travelling anymore. It felt like something else. Sure, it was exhilarating not to have to be home at any particular time. No meals to cook. Baths to give. Tantrums to quell. Toys to pick up. But I didn’t exactly feel free. Every time I passed a kid about the same age as mine, I missed my own. I exchanged knowing glances with other parents, unsolicitedly blurting out that I left mine at home. I was always looking for the perfect requisite souvenirs. I wasn’t living in an alternate timeline (though in many ways I wish I were).

Two years ago, I was fixated on excavating my old self. I so desperately wanted to return to who I used to be. Who could blame me? My life used to be Fun, with a capital F, and two years ago it wasn’t. I don’t know if I found my way back, and I don’t believe I ever will. The harsh truth is that I was frantically searching for something that no longer existed, and hasn’t for a long time. But the life I’ve created out of a series of life choices is rich in many other ways, and this past month I was relieved to know that all this newness wasn’t at the expense of Fun, with a capital F.

Two years ago, I was too goo, unable to see what was coming. Funny enough, it was right in front of me all along.