Some nights, I hold my own hand as I fall asleep so that I don’t feel as cold. Last night, being one of the aforementioned nights, it didn’t help. I have read various self-help and heal-all books, with authors instructing me to- and I quote here- “sit with the pain”.

     Lately though, I feel the pain is no longer a welcomed passenger in my car or a visitor on the front porch bench.

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So here I am on the phone with my friend’s wife, who I now consider more a friend to me than he is, albeit he doesn’t know this (yet), trying to help her save her marriage. Not because I couldn’t save mine, but because his reasoning for wanting to give up on his family was too cheap for me to believe. “I am not in love anymore, “he says to me.   “So get over it, and find the love again,” I say in return.

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It wasn’t until I had kids that my hatred for holiday music began to take form. It is not so much that I hate the sound of the done-one-too-many-times “Oh Holy Night” on the radio, nor is it that I loathe at the sound of my beautiful 6 year old daughter and her melodic voice. It’s that these two things streamed together is a lethal combination. << MORE >>

Thank God for cell phones and their unwavering ability to send and retrieve picture messages. This is how I will always remember finding out that my best friend in the whole wide world is pregnant. I don’t use the term “best friend” lightly. There is heaviness and a responsibility towards another person when you step into that role, and I am certain that she has filled those shoes like no other.<< MORE >>

I must be delusional because I was under the impression that I was a mother, not an orangutan. If I don’t have at least one child hanging on me, I have two. And they insist on using all of their weight to show me how much they love me while I am gathering up laundry or defrosting chicken. When I am eating my ritualistic salad for dinner, I appreciate Abbi’s asking me if I’d be interested in a “scalp massage”; however, she insists on sitting behind me while I eat. I am now a roughage-eating bobble head. The shredded carrots are falling off of the fork. I cannot spear an olive.

 Help. Me.

When I forego my runs outside and opt for the treadmill, Lyv begins to hand me things, including but not limited to: saran wrap (don’t ask), an empty milk carton (soy, of course), and various remote controls (no longer operable). Why is this? I have a theory.

            I think my young know that I have a closing time. Every night, at exactly 6 p.m., eastern standard time, I physically, mentally, and emotionally shut down. I do not care who hit whom, I don’t care if you forgot to scrub extra hard with Mommy’s loofah at bath time, and if you’re lucky you can probably get away with eating the leftover cake frosting for dinner at least by Friday night. When Lyv was using a fork to eat ants off of the floor the other night, I was concerned. But did I stop her? Sadly, no. I have watched enough Andrew Zimmern to know that in some countries, ants are a delicacy. I am allowing Abbi and Lyv to simply embrace other cultures. We are helping to break down the barriers that limit cultural assimilation in Miami. This is also why I laughed it off (after I made sure I lectured her loud enough just in case the neighbors were listening or watching) when Lyv “hid” her goldfish crackers in the dirt, only to dig them up 18 seconds later and shovel them in her mouth.

 It’s not that my morals and ideologies that accompany motherhood have diminished; I am just more apt to turn a blind eye when the sun goes down. For example, from the time I pick Abbi up from school at 2 p.m., she fills my brain with information. Is she aware that I only have 4 quality hours left? Is this why she talks with haste about things that ultimately have no relevance? Is she making a last attempt to pick my brain before it powers down? Do I know how old the sky is? Where do they sell refills for digital cameras?

What?

As I made dinner the other night, Lyv decided to climb into the dishwasher. Lucky for her, it was 5:56 p.m. I promptly pulled her out and explained as best as I could to a 16 month old that dishwashers are not for people. If she felt grimy, I’d be happy to bathe her as long as it was within the next 4 minutes. If Abbi has book reports to finish- or start- I have to admit that sometimes we don’t even read the book. I will ask her if she has any idea what the book (of choice) is about, and if it sounds close to the message the author was trying to convey, we are on the same page. No pun intended. I am not a bad parent, nor am I neglectful. I am just one person, responsible for three. I feel like my girls are my cloak, and when they are not with me, I feel naked. I will be out somewhere- Target or Publix as you very well now know- and if they are not with me, I will stop dead in my tracks. I will look for them for that split second before I remember that, yes, they are at school and the babysitter, respectively. I live for the sound of their laughter, for the way Abbi can add humor to what would otherwise be an inappropriate conversation for a 6 year old. My heart leaps when Lyv wraps herself around my neck, sparking my initial concern about my being a mom or some sort of an embodiment, illustrated in a Jane Goodall documentary.

Nevertheless, they are my light.

 I would like to put Abbi in Girl Scouts. Why haven’t I? Maybe she will learn how to cook. I kid. I would like to put more volunteer hours in at her school with the PTA. I would love to be able to divide myself up into three’s so that each of us can get equal parts love, humor and attention. That would require mathematics, and I just realized: 
            It’s after 6 o’clock.

 

 

           

I am not an animal rights activist by any means but I don’t condone the killing, beating or slaughtering of animals, and I do not eat red meat <insert joke here>. When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun holding up made-it-yourself posters decorated with Sharpie markers purchased at CVS advocating the rights of endangered species, I might count myself in.

            When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun, particularly on my running trail, because 87 ducks have decided to hold concession on my path and interrupt my otherwise perfect pace, I will maintain my belief as not being an animal rights activist.

            By any means.

            I have noticed that people in Miami have a serious attitude problem. They carry around this sense of entitlement that is evident in grocery stores, where they don’t feel like they should have to wait in line. It happens when you are approaching a red light and some child speeds by you, only to cut you off and slam on the breaks. But I am not here to talk about the breakdown and idiocracy of our society. I want to talk about how this aforementioned sense of entitlement must be in the Miami water, because it is spreading to our wildlife.

            I want to talk about these ducks.

            It’s happened to me before, you see, but lately it’s become more apparent. On mile 2, it doesn’t really seem like such a big deal. I can gracefully skip over a few ducks here and there gathering on one of nature’s beautiful mornings to discuss their plan of attack from the kids who rally around these parts with stale bread. I can handle a duck and her ducklings crossing on the path- after all, who can begrudge a mother ensuring the safety of her young? We all loved Mother Goose for crying out loud. On mile 4, I can excuse the slow-moving leaders of the pack that seem to influence their even slower-moving counterparts as I hop-scotch around them, careful not to step in their leftovers (can we not get too descriptive here?). What it boils down to is that I am understanding until about mile 7. At mile 7, I start to measure my rights a runner on this trail to their rights as animals that were blessed with webbed feet and could just as easily take up residence in the lake that surrounds this controversial territory.

            Once I am beyond mile 10, I am swearing up and down that my next run will be to Sports Authority or Bass Pro Shops, where I will happily and hastily purchase an air horn. I am tired, impatient, and no longer have that bounce in my step.

            I come with a warning.

            The only problem with this air horn scheme is that it might wake up the entire neighborhood. Wouldn’t that then group me in with Miami’s Sense of Entitlement Association? Is it really my right to scare these animals off of their land? But what is my alternative? A whistle? I am already out of breath, can you just imagine?

            Just this afternoon, I incurred another stand-off. Luckily, I was on my last mile so whatever energy I had left was just enough to convince my legs to manage their way back home. The only problem I had was that, surprisingly, it wasn’t a group of ducks I was staving off or shoeing out of the way. It was a small group of punk kids (probably the same ones that would cut me off, if they could see over the steering wheel of their mother’s mini-van). I stood my ground feeling fierce and strong; after spending last night alone, I had a sense of fearlessness and much to ponder. As I approached these 3 kids, they seemed to deliberately take up the same side of the trail that I was running. I motioned to one of them to move over and with slight defiance, he complied. His buddy fell into step behind him, but the last one wouldn’t budge. I started to wonder: Maybe we, myself included, need to start teaching our kids the importance of simple manners, and put the ducks on the back-burner for awhile (not in the literal sense, of course. I dislike Michael Vick as much as the next guy). It is our children that grow into these adults that cannot be held accountable or responsible for their actions. And maybe some of them end up having ducks for pets, and that’s how it spreads.

            I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I love to run, I don’t really mind the ducks, and I can forgive someone who can forgive me.

            As I ran past the kid who refused to move, we brushed shoulders. At first, he looked at me with justified disgust; I was 9 miles in and drenched in sweat. But then his face softened, and as I lifted my sunglasses off of my face to make eye contact with him, he uttered an apology. Half-assed, but still worthy. I smiled up at him, because nowadays 13 year old kids are taller than me, and I said:

No. I’m sorry.

Sometimes that’s enough, and sometimes you need to just find another route.

My closet door is literally on its last proverbial leg, I guess what most would call a “hinge”. It has been like this for approximately 3 months and every morning it greets me, leaning slightly more to the right. Or left.

            Depending on whether you’re coming or going.

            Please don’t start with the safety concern of my closet door, relating to my children. I know it’s not a great idea to have a swinging swaying and almost temperamental closet door within such close proximity to two small kids, but I sincerely feel like any attempt I make to repair it would result in a fatality. Or at least the loss of a limb. I am afraid of heights so standing on a ladder to “assess” the problem is out of the question. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a DeWalt drill and a Ryobi to save my life. The fact that I am able to correctly spell and identify two different types of electric drills can be accredited to my dad for dragging my sister and I through Home Depot as a punishment when we refused to get along as kids. I recently became privy to the difference between a Phillips and a flathead screwdriver, but understanding why there is a need for two different types of screws is lost on me. Let’s pretend that I was to fix this door. Imagine my surprise as I walk into Home Depot or even Lowe’s- clearly I don’t have a preference- and I am distracted by the actual size of the store. I would be overwhelmingly worried about what all I need for this DIY project (Amelie watches a lot of HGTV and I have learned some very important acronyms that are crucial to home projects).  All I know is that the door isn’t opening and closing as it should and this has become an issue.

Would I need safety glasses? Or a hard hat? What if the door is too heavy and it falls on me? My head would be protected, but I am more than the sum of my parts. What if I am on a step-ladder (wait- would I need one of those?) and it falls on me? I wouldn’t even have my footing. All of that Yoga and Pilates would be a wash and if I broke the hypothetical limb as I am predicting I would, then I might even lose my job. I could actually lose money and be at a disadvantage all because of the inconvenience of an unexpected faulty door.

What about gloves? Would one use gloves for this process? And what type of gloves? They sell gardening gloves and dish-washing gloves, and would these be sufficient? Would they get the job done? I don’t think they manufacture Closet Door Repair gloves. Is this even a question an employee of a Home Depot would be able to answer? I don’t think I would know where to begin.

I would end up wandering over to another section that I am far more comfortable in and probably come home with a spectacular looking area rug, whose pattern I just couldn’t resist. This would lead me back to this home improvement heaven in search of paint because I would want to really play up the colors of my new rug. But what about the closet door?

I decided to do myself- and this door- a favor and just remove the entire thing from its uncooperative hinges. I feel like I am in a safer environment and it is no longer glaring at me as it sways to and fro. Until I can muster up the courage (and work on that smile where my dimples make an appearance, especially because I am no longer a blonde) to ask someone to come fix it for me, it will find a home propped up against the wall. It’s kind of European though, as now I have this nice big entrance to my haven of clothes, heels, and bags. I can see everything before I even decide what I want to wear to Publix, Target or the bank. Some days I even get to make an appearance at all three places! This is all very exciting to me.

This morning I awoke to the sun lighting my room through my window. I got out of bed and wobbled (runners walk this way in the morning…) over to my door-lacking entryway, happy that I no longer had to worry about dying. No.

Now I just have to fret over tripping and dying because on this bright and cheery morning, I have discovered that the light bulb just blew out.

Welcome to my life.

Have I mentioned I teach yoga? I do. I have been teaching Pilates at the local college for almost 4 years, and this year my boss asked me to start up a yoga class.<< MORE >>

            My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. I have to say it might be the best thing that has happened to her. Before you let your jaw hang open as a result of what you will assume is my lack of compassion, let me finish. My grandmother, Mema, was not a nice person. In fact, she was a bitch to all who knew her and even to those that did not. Ever since she has been diagnosed with severe Alzheimer’s, she has been the poster child for pleasantry. She is no longer worried about whether me or my sister still owe her $1.49 for the Baskin Robbins ice cream she took us out for circa 1995. She no longer asks me why my breasts keep shrinking after every child birth in front of my better-looking cousins that I haven’t seen since I was 12, when said breasts were, in fact, bigger than then they are now. Although she did ask how my “cycle” was treating me in front of my cousin Jay yesterday. I’ll let it slide though- it was obvious I was bloated. She kind of just lives in the land of oblivion, and niceness comes with the territory.

            Among other things that are apparently in abundance in La-La land are crazy family members. Why is it that when one person loses their mind diagnostically, every one within arm’s length seems to think it’s a ticket to crazy town, too? My 45 year old uncle , for example, was a not-so happily married man, who in the span of a year, left his wife and 2 kids, and moved back in with my grandmother. A clean-cut guy having worked for the Post Office for 20 years, has now grown his hair out. He is starting to resemble the Adam Sandler character, Zohan, and even wears a man-choker.

            He is not a surfer.

           There are no waves in Miami.

            He is a mail man.

            Here is why I am talking about my grandmother: Three days a week I take her “out”. Out, you ask? Where might “out” be? 

            Out is anywhere she needs to go, or anywhere I can get her to go without resisting my request to get her out of her house. Today our goal was to get Mema her flu shot. My cousin Jay (the cousin who is now privy to my menstrual cycle) and I loaded her into my car alongside my 2 kids, and the 5 of us ventured out to CVS. After asking me and Jay countless times where we were going, whose car we were in and whose kids she was “babysitting”, we arrived. As I filled out the computerized health information sheet, Jay was responsible for watching my 2 kids and our grandmother, totaling 3 children. Abbi, my 6 year old, was talking a mile a minute, while my 16 month old, Lyv, was content chewing on a pen cap my grandmother gave her (do you see what I mean?). As Jay rummages through my purse to try to find her insurance cards and Abbi is telling me how I really need to prioritize her need for Halloween candy this year, and I am struggling to wipe the drool off of my shoulder, we lose my grandmother.

            I look through the aisles, somewhat frantically- I mean, really, how far could she go- I am calling her name. My cousin is still standing in line because he is fearful that we will lose our spot what with the 12 people in front of us. I have Lyv squirming out of my arms and Abbi is struggling to keep up with my fast pace, as I scan each aisle of CVS, wondering which one could have the most appeal to her.

            I find her in the Mixed Nuts aisle. How very appropriate.

            I am with my 2 kids, my cousin who feeds into my grandmother’s senility by answering the same questions she asks him every 2 minutes with a variation of the same answer so that she is all the more confused, and I wonder what we must look like to strangers. Does she even have a bra on? Do her socks match? I cannot wait in this line any longer. Not like this; not with her wandering off every few minutes, only to ask us why we are at CVS in the first place.

            I realize I have to be in class in 2 hours and I am hungry. I tell my cousin I will bring her back myself on Wednesday. This time, I know what to expect. I will bring snacks and entertainment and every nut she could possibly desire. Even pistachios. There will be no roaming. If she asks me why we are here and how we got here, I might just look at her and answer the question with the same question.

            My grandmother has Alzheimer’s and I think I’ve lost my mind.