Please Be My Friend...

At Gigi's preschool they occasionally ask us if we'd be willing to let her participate in studies done by the University.  Most recently they contacted us about a study involving me.  In return for a few surveys, stories, and submitting myself to an EEG, all of which took about 2 hours, they'd give me $50.  It seemed like a win.  Dr. J watched the kids and I trucked myself over to the psychology building.  I instantly felt connected to the researcher and her assistant.  They were funny, intelligent, and lively.  The set up of the EEG was tedious and we had plenty of time to chat.  It was invigorating but I found myself stumbling over my words.  What was the research I used to do, my degree, what does my husband study, what was it like to live in Jordan, how do I feel about current conditions in the middle east, where do I want to end up, what books am I currently reading?  No talk about church or children my go to subjects 90% of the time.  After the research was done we took a few minutes to chat about living in our area, the places we grew up, and the oddities of those areas, how much we wish we had a Trader Joe's.  I was finally getting into a groove but at times still found myself puttering around.  It's as if all the workbooks, kids books, joke books, Word World, potty dance talk, reprimands, counting, ABC's, Don't Spill the Beans, Ice Breakers, kids music has turned my mind to mush.  After nine years of marriage my husband has become a master tailor at sewing the pieces of my gobble gook together.  I can give him shreds and he can come out with a full picture quilt.  These woman forced me to put together coherent thoughts, ones that could be understood without a shared history.  As I walked out the door I wanted to turn around and say, "Please be my friend.  I promise I'll work on my conversation skills."  It isn't to say I don't love my children or my church or my church friends for that matter, I desperately do,  but I felt a mental flourish at being forced into conversations outside of that part of my history.  Even moms need space to grow occasionally.