I had a lightness to my step as I walked back down the sidewalk, crossed the driveway and looked for where I’d parked the van.
I felt happy. Tingly with excitement.
I’m not good at math, but two children in elementary school equals zero children underfoot for six hours each weekday. It equals about 30 hours a week for me to work, all alone, without a peep from anyone except Annabelle. It equals 30 hours a week to breathe and be a professional and savor the silence and get things done, or, maybe, get absolutely nothing done.*
*Nah, that’s not likely. Even my hobbies are productive.
And so, today, on this sunny Thursday morning, I did something I’ve wanted to do for more than seven years.
I signed up for a pottery class.
For two and a half glorious hours, one morning a week for three months, I will learn and experiment and try new things and create with my hands. I’ll leave my phone on Do Not Disturb (set so I can get phone calls from the school, but not emails and social notifications) while I get deliciously messy and clay-covered.
I might want to bring an apron, she said. (Yayyyyy! I’m going to sew a special pottery one!) And a notebook, for writing down what I did on a certain day or what techniques I want to try. (Yayyyyyyy! I LOVE notebooks! It’s like going back to school except without the social studies and teenage-girl drama!)
I’m bursting with anticipation and it feels strange. I can’t wait. I really, really can’t WAIT. When was the last time I couldn’t wait for something? When was the last time I looked forward to something so special that was just for me?
I’m going to throw a pot, guys. Is that what you say? I’ll soon find out.