I’ve always joked about wanting a Sister Wife. So much so, that when I start my sister wife schtick, my husband smiles, albeit a bit painfully, and sits back to listen to my monologue for the 4583rd time. He’s such a good egg and I certainly don’t want to share him, but the thought of having a sister wife has always seemed slightly appealing. I mean, come on. She’d totally be on my side and would be able to read my mind in a way that stumps my husband sometimes. She would care about throw pillows. We could share shoes. She’d watch home makeover shows and care about every detail. If we were super duper lucky, she would be a chef. Or a personal trainer. Or a poker player. She would justify every purchase, every chocolate bar, every sippy cup of wine and make me feel like the funniest, hippest mom of the year.
But as I started writing this weekly Sunday Sermon with a Sippy Cup, I realized that in a way, I actually do have a sister wife. More so, I have a boatload of badass sister wives who may not live with me, but live next door to me and down the street from me and across the country from me. And these lovelies have my back every day. And honestly make up a village that I never want to leave.
I don’t think I could live without my badass band of sister wives. I mean I could, but I wouldn’t want to. They make life so much sweeter, and bearable, and hilarious and real. From one of my oldest and dearest friends who let me sleep between she and her husband after September 11th because I didn’t want to be alone. To my first mommy friends who made everything seem ok even though we had no idea what we were doing. From my day to day moms who’ll take my kids at a moments notice (like that time I got a concussion on the playground!). To the women who know when I need to let loose and sing karaoke until 1am and text me the next day at 7am to share our pain. From my neighbors who share their homes with my kids and feed them and love them as their own. To my ladies who I can bear my soul to and not be judged. They are all truly a gift. And all truly badasses.
The older I get the more communal living sounds better and better. I wonder when parenting as a community became the exception, not the rule. And I have to say, I think it’s because in this age of social media and blogs 😉 and tweets and grams, the impetus is to portray one’s life and family as perfect. The right filter, the perfect smiles, the gorgeous home and skip the crap and the sickness and the tears and the mess. The inevitable awesome mess that is our lives. Honestly, I don’t think my mom cared that much about what the house looked like, when the kids ran in and out and her neighbor would walk in the back door without knocking. I know I would think twice about having someone just stop by before I could make my house magazine ready. And why? Who cares? What a friend cares about is eating Lays potato chips and dishing about life. Look, I love a clean house. There is no better feeling than when everything is neat and picked up and I can do my crossword puzzle with a glass of wine. I’m not saying we should live in squalor, just imperfection. Just be in the beautiful mess together. Because what’s important for my kids to see is a community that loves them. A village that they can count on to pick up the slack after their mom has been singing karaoke too late into the night. To have other moms spoil them and tell them when they’re wrong and encourage them to be their best selves.
So my gorgeous, talented, badass sister wives. Come on over. They’ll be dishes in the sink and clutter on the stairs but they’ll also be lays potato chips and sippy cups of goodness. A very wise woman once said, “It takes a village.” And I love mine so much. Bottoms up badasses.