The Perfect Book Club

For years I was part of a perfect book club.  Just a few women, all serious readers and thinkers, delicious dinners and plenty of wine, with thoughtful conversation threading it all together.  These women pushed me to read things I might not have chosen, welcomed my suggestions, and gave me a sounding board.  We went out together, we read together, we fed each other.

It was a moment in time.  Some of us had babies, then second babies.  We cancelled because the kids were sick; we apologized for not reading the whole book.  Conversations split along the mothers-not mothers line as the mothers talked too much about diapers and pediatricians.  I, at least, stifled envy when the not-mothers made weekend plans; this was my one social activity of the month.

There were marriages and moves; the book club fell apart.

I joined a restaurant group, where food and drink are the only responsibilities.  I adore it, especially when we talk about books.

And now I’ve been invited to join a new book club.  We’re all mothers; we’re also readers and writers and lawyers and thinkers.  Revolutionary Road is the first book; we meet next week for the first time.  I’m folding down corners and compiling a mental list of discussion topics, but mostly I’m thinking about my perfect book club and keeping my fingers crossed.

This essay originally appeared on the Bookshelf.