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Our Little Loss.

Hayley — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 22:04:49 GMT

When I discovered you, I felt so many different feelings all at once. I felt anxious. I felt worry. I felt scared. Fear and excitement were in there, too. All I had to do was take one look at my counterpart and I knew that you, and if only you, were safe. That was my job. As a mother, I am familiar with the role of protecting and keeping my babies, who I witnessed grow into toddlers and are now my children, cocooned and nestled within.

When he first found out about you, he only felt one thing: Elation. His happiness was so tangible that I thrived off of it and fed my insecurity with his hope until I was drunk off of his smile. No matter the obstacle, he had a reason why you were solution to the unforeseen problems I could conjure up at any moment.

When we first saw you, it was clear to both of us that you were made from us, and we were made for each other.

So it only stood to reason: You were perfect.

We couldn’t have known that my body would fail you the way it did and for that, I feel only one thing: Loss.

You were in the shell of me but all around you were what-ifs. My body did only half of its job in just a small part of the vast area that you were encompassing. My body- the one that unfailingly does headstands and runs for miles to no avail- could not do the very thing it was born to do. Any sudden move- from either one of us- could have caused potential harm to you. Or me. Or both of us. You would have had two sisters, and as their mother, I needed to think about them.

Because of you, I know what it is to love something I have never seen. I know that my heart is capable of missing someone that it will never know. I will never know you. I will never see you. And if you can understand this, I see you and all of the future you’s in your father. The way he focuses when he is working diligently on something, albeit his laptop or his highly-addictive iPhone. The way his face brightens up when a pretty actress in a movie he’s seen a countless amount of times crosses the screen of his brand new television and he tries to play it off as if I am imagining it. Because the truth is, as I know I will always love you and always never know you, I knew I loved your daddy the first night his face brightened up as I stood there, he walked up to me, and our skin brushed each other’s.

He tried to play that off, too.

I see you in the ways I can’t understand him. I wonder if those things would have been passed on to you and I would have had to try harder to comprehend why you do certain things, thus making more of an earnest effort to better understand both of you. The way he has to do three point four things at once, just to stay focused. I wonder if you would have picked up my sensitivity- a level so deep he can’t fathom sometimes- but so nicely paired with his ability to drop whatever he is doing to comfort me, now that you are gone.

You would have been so adored by him. He is a big talker, always blathering on about being tough and raising the toughest. He also brings me coffee every morning on the weekends, without ever asking me if I really need him to do it.

The way he loves me is the way he would have loved you.

The way I love him is why I will never stop loving you.

The way we love each other is how we will heal and cope with the reality that you are gone.

Your mom and dad will share the memory of you until we are old and gray, watching your siblings grow up and we will know that the parts of them that are a wonder to us are probably the parts of you we never knew. And in that, we will find comfort.

I will always remember your movements, even though they were short lived. They are forever etched in my mind. You found your thumb even when you were kicking up a storm on that little monitor that allowed me to see into your world.

I am forever and ever deeply sorry that I couldn’t let you into mine.

We love you always, little guy.

Role Call

Hayley — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 06:37:29 GMT

As a yoga instructor, I am constantly, consistently, and religiously reminding my students to breathe. I boast about how form is of the utmost importance and guarantee with a genuine smile and open arms that after one month with me, they will be so in tune with their bodies that their minds will believe they were always one entity instead of two.

As a mother, I am continuously begging my children to behave or a certain number of any set consequences that have been previously implemented will be once again enforced. At this, they sit very still for two point eight seconds before one glances over at the other, knowing they can both simulaneously run circles around me, should they feel so inclined.

As a human being, a friend, and a lover, I am expecting my own self to breathe correctly but not so often that I am interfering with someone else's air space. My form- the way I have shaped and reshaped my life- has taken a toll on the very mold and restraints I had put in place according to my expectations of the self I thought I was on my way to becoming. My behavior is conditional to my environment and because I feel detached from so many other past lives, I am ever-changing.

I broke the pattern; the sequential and chronological order that had catalogued my experiences is now in disarray. I am doing things I never thought I would do, and they do not seem to be out of the ordinary.

You make it easy.

You make it hard.

But we make an effort.

In an attempt to understand how you would want to be with someone like me, you've convinced me that someone like me is not the solution, but I- in fact- am. Someone like me would suffice, but it's actually me that you need. I wait for the day when you will wake up and realize that this was all just a big mistake on your part and ohimsosorrybutihavetogohayley, while you wait for the day when you will prove me wrong.

Who will give out first? Do I have to let go to see that your truth has been waiting to have a talk with my fear? And what would they say to each other?

Just. Hold. On.

You have shown me a side of myself I didn't know existed, because it is a mirror image of you. I had to discover loss, hurt, pain, and lonliness to be able to identify this raw feeling that presented itself in the form of: You. Because of you, I now know me and losing myself again is not an option.

As your other half, I need to slow down when you speed up, just to keep the balance. As your best friend, I need to tell you you're right even if you're wrong in front of others, but alone I will reveal your mistake, thus never making it a weakness in public. As your lover, I will form a barrier around your convictions so that you always feel safe, while ensuring that we will always hear the other's voice reverberating through. I am protecting you from everything at all times, even if that means that sometimes I have created my own hell by shielding myself out. As a wife, I need to learn that the mind and body are really one entity; you can't have one functioning soundly without the other. You can't give up because you don't want to give in. As your wife, I want to learn that most things are forgiveable, especially when you start with yourself. You have taught me that I am valuable, and that I don't always have to be my own teacher to learn a lesson on my own.

As a yoga instructor, I have begun to see that all of these different roles have allowed me to morph into different poses and phases of my life. This one, though, is by far my favorite and it has become the most permanent. It is the one I have been building the endurance to maintain and now I have the opportunity to demonstrate my skills in the most important audition of my life.

You gave me a rope and instead of hanging all of my sadness on it, I swung across a river of tears to prove to you that your teachings were not in vain.

Thank you for allowing me to be your student, among everything else.

Best Behavior

Hayley — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 05:03:49 GMT

In relationships- in the beginning- we always do the same things, and vow that this time it will be different. It will be different because this time, we won’t ever stop doing the little things, paying attention to the small beautiful and intricate details that make up the bigger picture that can gets muddied with the mundane. We will keep buying flowers, promise to compliment, and all this topped by a one hundred percent guarantee that lines of communication will stay open, honest, and filled with goodness and positive- albeit constructive- criticism.

We never set out to fail. We have failed before, we did not plan on it, so this time around, with steadfast determination we are arming ourselves with the power to make. It. Work.

With openness and honesty also comes comfort. Some people may take refuge in the knowledge that their significantotherboyfriendhusband is at a level that is so totally bare he feels connected enough to you that he can say, quite literally, anything. The flip side: it might also be detrimental to this pseudo notion in your brain that the two of you still have that newness you had in the first stages where you were convinced you were the only one who ever touched him. The only one who ever held his gaze, and he yours.

The only one he ever called

Beautiful.

How foolish we are in the beginning. And how I love the beginning, because foolishness is so completely justified. We dance on the first few pages of this novel that we are not only rewriting and revising, but re-reading. We dance around topics, promising to get to them later. We tip toe around one another, ever so careful not to step too far out of our boundaries*, yet still aware that we are not alone and if we don’t at least extend a hand, all of our hard work thus far will slip through our fingertips. Wasted. Again.

When do we cross over? When do Thrill and Security become friends? If we are to act like peacocks, why is it that they show off their plumage to their potential mates immediately and with fervor, to make their presence and offerings known, while we wait until months later to sport around our true colors?

I want this, what we have right now, in another six months. I want it to be a constant build-up, where we are placing intricately designed bricks that we hand-picked ourselves, layer over layer. I want us to build a safe haven where you and I can find solace when we are tired of running and fighting for the day. A place that is structurally sound enough to withstand all of the hardships that are sure to impact any two people bridging together one life. This place that we have created needs to be strong enough to hold its own when you and I are out in a world that does not necessarily have any regard for the injustices we may face.

A bond, like a home, needs to be strengthened from the inside out. That way, when we are standing outside on the cracked pavement peering through the small window, the light that shines so brightly lends us the reminder we need to always be mindful of that feeling that rendered you speechless.

When you first looked, and then again, when you finally saw.

*For you, as it is your most-used word.

Just One More.

Hayley — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 01:38:04 GMT

On my birthday, this is my gift to you:

Tomorrow I am turning twenty nine years old. I have always celebrated my birthday for the entire month of July, as much to my mother’s chagrin as it was to my pleasure. As soon as July 1^st would introduce itself as the beginning of the seventh month, I would start hinting to anyone who would listen that it was my birthday month and did they want to help me celebrate. I didn’t care about gifts. I didn’t care about cake and candles. I just wanted the 9^th day of July to be recognized as my special day.

As I’ve grown up, and especially when I entered my twenties, my birthdays started to lose significance. I began marking them with the age of my older daughter, and then subsequently with the age of my younger daughter as well. When I turned 21, it was remembered because I also happened to be in the 7 month of my first pregnancy. When I turned 25, Lyv was just over a month old. I tallied up birthdays much like someone keeping score, so sure that she is always going to earn more points than her opponents. It became boring. Uneventful. Dismissed.

I was so eager, prepared, and ready to recklessly abandon my twenties and move on to my thirties with such enthusiasm, that I wasn’t even considering turning 29 as the last year linking me to so many of my milestones. Failed attempts at marriages, successful births of two healthy daughters, the long and winding road otherwise known as my Bachelor’s Degree that took me 10 years to finish. I had chalked up my twenties to living, learning, and love lost, gained, and drained again. I counted on turning 29 for the sole purpose of allowing it to be my last year before I could start a new decade of chapters, relying only on my promise and rushed determination to never make any one of my singular and disastrous mistakes again. I assumed that if it took the last two years to reconcile all of the decisions I had made for the first six, wrapping up the consequences of those decisions could be fastidiously done in the next 365 days.

That was my focus. Just. Get. Through it.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve known that you can no better plan for what has happened any more than you can plan not to trip over an uprooted uneven sidewalk because the old oak trees that line the streets while you are on a long run, are tired of keeping mum. You came into my life when I never asked you to, and I didn’t know I was looking for you. You would lie in bed at night wondering what I was doing, where I was, what I looked like, never knowing that you had already memorized my face. And I, yours. I took your breath away one morning when the sun decided to act as my own personal backdrop. I was so caught up in my own world causing me to be that much later to the gym, which is why the sun was just that much more perfectly positioned right behind me. I let you in on my secret: my life had been severely altered, leaving me unaffected by your choice- whether it be to stay or to go- due to my inability to see that my own travesties might just be someone else’s treasures.

My next secret was that I was lying to myself.

You once told me that you would love to dive for pearls, and you made it sound so enchanting. Then again, everything you saydotouchlookfeel becomes infected with your grace. You have a knack for uncovering things that have been tarnished and tainted. You make them new again, polishing them with your words, wit, and wisdom.

Having you in my life is a blessing, but allowing you to bring me back before I was ready to do it on my own is more than I think I deserve. You came a year too early, but one day later would have been past due. Adamant in your conviction that I saved you from swimming in a sea of familiar faces that individually offered you nothing, I need you to know I was as far down as you were, that place that- ironically- lacks so much depth.

You protected yourself for so long in your self-imposed bubble, until one day you were ready to burst.

You finally floated to the top, and you discovered:

Me.

Fight/Flight.

Hayley — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 03:43:54 GMT

Watching you gives me the same rush I get when I am standing at the start line of a race. Waiting for that gun to sound, everything that I have been training for, all of the miles I’ve suffered through, the pain I have endured has all led me right to this place with such apprehension. The way I have prepared for a long run is the way I have prepared for you. I knew that it would take dedication, heart, and determination even when I was the only one judging my efforts. If I stopped after the first mile, no one but me would know. It would be a coveted secret, evidenced by my inability to complete what was required of me at a later date. But for now, right now, I’d be the only one who knew I’d failed.

Watching you has the same outcome. You are none the wiser, as you stand there so enthralled in your own story. I am alone in this endeavor, and feel as though I have almost stolen moments from you. Moments that are turning into hours, and then days that will result in a lifetime we are promising to share with each other.

You are a fighter; I knew this when I first laid eyes on you as the rest of my body took flight and did what my mind has always told it to do.

Run.

I ran far and fast, with the occurring realization that I was, in fact, stationary. That is what a runner does. We take flight, and it wasn’t until you were effortlessly gifted enough to hold my gaze with that amount of intensity that made me want to stop. I wondered if that’s how you defeat your opponents, because with eyes like yours I would surrender to you. I have, and I did.

When I look at you now, in the stance that is so demonstrative of your capabilities as a fighter, I know that we are polar opposites in our convictions. You stay until the end, until the whistle is blown, the points are tallied, the last curtain called. You take the punches and the kicks that are thrown your way, setting aside your expectations that maybe this time the world will provide you shelter. You are what I need, and I just happen to know what I want. Our differences in the way that we endure the obstacles we have overcome are what make us so secure in this perfect circle we have created. You stand in the middle, aware of the continuous space around you. Your arms are equal parts ready to catch me as they are ready to take cover. I, on the other hand, stand on the peripheral of this never ending circle, chasing it like an over-zealous parent whose child is riding the merry-go-round for the very first time wanting to catch each moment.

So I run on, always within your reach, but allowing you the space you need to take a stand, put your hands up, and with clenched fists, defend our honor.

Know Idea

Hayley — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 03:56:45 GMT

When we met, I was stoic. I was a block wall that had been man-made; piece by piece had been piled one atop the other until I could no longer see out and was miserably numb enough to not want anyone in. The person you saw was hollowed out, no longer searching for meaning but instead continuously running in place. The road was no friend of mine, and the streets didn’t have any familiarity. My eyes, the same ones that once saw a life mapped out in every intricate detail, had now fallen victim to tunnel vision. I was on a hamster’s wheel; how could you have possibly expected me to veer off of that path, away from the rut I had made with my very own two feet?

When you saw me, I couldn’t have known what you were seeing or what you were trying to see past. All I saw was a girl who had a series of failures. I am good at being loved, but they don’t stay. I am great at loving, but I can promise you I will run if I am over exposed. I am fantastic friend, but my advice may not come as easily if I am asked to withhold my own experiences. I cannot be objective anymore. I am the marrying kind, but I have lost my adhesive for any level of commitment. Nothing ever sticks anymore, it seems.

I noticed you first, and should you ever request, I will argue this for the rest of my life. When I saw you, your face and your eyes are not what surprised me as much as the way I felt my face and eyes react.

I woke up.

My heart began beating slightly faster, and as a result, I started to pick up my speed. The paradox here is that I was unable to run away. I wanted you to see what you were doing to me. I wanted all of your attention, even with twenty other people- all of them strangers, as you should have been- in the room.

I wasn’t glowing the day you saw me. I was thriving off of someone else’s confidence. I had just had a conversation with a friend of mine and we spoke about love. About how I needed to break away from it altogether and re-learn how to love me and be okay on my own. Of course, this coming from someone who is happily married and was having an argument with her husband on whose turn it was to clean the bathroom among other marital woes, made me equal parts happy and sad. I wanted to argue with someone about household duties. I wanted to talk to someone about a dish-filled sink on our kitchen.

I just wanted someone, but not just anyone.

Whatever it was that you saw- the glow you keep bringing up- was just residuals from a fire that used to burn so brightly. And because you saw it, you saved me. My fear was that it would go out- and go out quietly- before someone noticed it and then it would be too late. For so long, I had been the sole witness of my own demise and I watched myself become dull and diluted. I would look in the mirror and talk to myself because no one else was there. I would hold myself up to save me from falling on my own face. I ran to erase my past. I ran to keep my focus on what was straight ahead even though I felt like I couldn’t see two feet in front of me.

I ran.

Right into you.

I am scared of loss. I am also scared of gain. In fact, I think the two are so closely intertwined that sometimes I teeter on the brink of middle ground and hope it opens up and swallows me whole. Or in the pieces I was convinced my life had become.

I was so close to being completely and utterly burned.

You are putting me back together, and I finally feel like I fit into myself again. Thank you for taking a notice to someone who had lost sight of herself because she was a hundred miles ahead, a thousand yards behind, and a million steps away from the girl she had loved being. The girl who knew how to love and be loved and looked as though she could set the world on fire with her glow.

Instead of watching me burn, now you can watch us shine.

Our Will.

Hayley — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 21:18:00 GMT

My younger daughter, Lyv, might possibly suffer from multiple personality disorder. Then again, maybe we all do. Upon reading this confession, one might sit back, remove their eye glasses, take a shot of whiskey and think, “Well Jesus woman, call a doctor!” But it is not what you think. Not everything is a worse-case scenario.

Let me be a tad more specific: My daughter insists on wearing a very carefully selected costume of her picking for one entire week, only removing it for a rushed bath. I emphasize “rushed” because she asks about the aforementioned costume only forty six and one quarter time before I speed up the water to soap lathering and rinsing ratio to save my own mind from exploding.

While she is Little Bo Peep for the week, she cannot be bothered to carry a juice cup, or anything that might impede her ability to carry her shepard’s crook.

Apparently, this is serious business. In fact, I had to commission her assistance the other afternoon when I needed her and my older daughter’s help carrying the groceries in the house. Lyv simply hung her crook around her neck, looked up at me and said, “nothing too heavy mommy, please.”

This, from a two year old.

Last week, while she wore the Disney-inspired Belle costume, it struck me: Are we raising our daughters to be impressed by man-made heroines? Are they in awe of Disney’s princesses because, after all is said and done, they get the guy in the end?

What are we portraying to our little girls? Little Bo Peep couldn’t keep her sheep together. She tried, but she lost them. The nursery rhyme emphatically instructs her to leave them alone, and that’s when they’ll come home, wagging their tails behind them. We learn this as women. We grow up believing that fighting for what you believe in and never giving up will result in success. But then right there in a simple nursery rhyme, we are implored to just leave it alone.

What happens if, when we do this, we are left alone for so long as the unintended result and the consequence of trying to follow the rules becomes the condition we crave? Why must we feel like we have to belong to someone else?

In The Little Mermaid, Ariel had to lose her voice to have her affections returned by a washed-up prince. Literally. He washed up on shore, she sang him a lullaby, as women are taught to do to a small child, and sent him on his way. She made a deal with the devil, lost her ability to speak, and he fell in love. I cannot let this happen to me. If it does, you will hear my screams from here to Illinois.

Belle didn’t gain the freedom she longed for until the Beast felt like there was something in it for him. He was only good when she brought it out of him. I want someone who has enough good in him to make me better, not so lacking in this area that he needs me to spread me so thin, trapping me in the depths of the castle of his ego, only to use me as a tightrope he walks to get to the man he has always wanted to be.

What is left of the woman who stood by him? Underneath him? The last petal falls off the rose, he is good again, and she is worn on his arm like a trophy.

Why did Adam leave Eve in the garden alone, just to blame her for the disorder of his life, and subsequently everyone else’s to follow? She was unclothed, probably cold, and craved contact, communication, and compassion. He told her not to eat the apple, but what choice did she have? I don’t necessarily buy into the talking snake bit, but even if there was a snake, Eve had a choice. Adam left her to fend for herself, and from what I understand, there was no talk of when he’d be back. Isn’t this why we continue to second guess ourselves, even why we wait for the ones we love to come home to us? When they assert they are leaving us and do not entertain question pertaining to their return, why do we set them free while imprisoning our minds with thoughts of their return?

I will not herd you back into my arms, but I will always leave the door open so we both know we are here voluntarily, willingly.

Losing my voice is an impossibility, but I can lower it to hear you out.

Love me because you are good enough to love me, not because it makes you better.

Don’t give me a choice; I have had plenty of those in my lifetime and all of the ones I have made thus far have led me to you. Isn’t that enough to solidify my love for you?

Yours for me?

What if you are never going to be mine?

Then I shall build a widow’s walk, and the floorboards will be worn to match the soles of my feet.

I don’t want to lose any more slippers, get lost in the woods, or give up what’s left of my independence to claim my happily ever after. But please, wake me with your kisses every morning.

Will time be on our side, even if distance and patience aren’t so willing to bend? You would never ask it of me and that is why I will hand it over to you. I’ve watched enough movies and witnessed enough fairy tales gone awry to convince myself that I must see it through, and it will break me if I see it end. I will not give up any part of me for you; if you are a part of me, I will not give you up either.

I am sure I know what loves looks like, because if I see you, there will be no question in my eyes.

I will have my answer in yours.

Shy ToWn

Hayley — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 03:11:00 GMT

**I am apologizing inadvance. This post is meant for just one reader. If, to anyone else, it seems lousy and full of things that would otherwise be spelled with a lot of L’s, O’s,V’s and E’s, you can stop here.

It wasn’t John Lennon’sbirthday. Or Leon Russel’s. In fact, to my knowledge, it wasn’t any specific celebration of my greatest musical influences, but I heard every song playing at once in my head on that day. Anyone who knows me can vouch for my having to signify dates with rock legend’s birthdays. But this was an ordinary day.

Sometimes love hits you like that. And sometimes it’s a slow burning fire. Either way, you stand there, not knowing whether to shake off the impact or continue to be mesmerizedby the flames. As I write this, I am suffering- and for the very first time-from writer’s block.

You do this to me, so I will do this for you.

There have been songs that, upon hearing them, bring me back to places I have never been with you. Places I may never go, for fear that I will look for you on a park bench before my mouth tells my mind to kindly let my heart down easily when I realize it is just me. Places we may not ever go, but can see so clearly in my mind, while you pull me close and place your hands on my face, more for the romantic appeal than to keep my cheeks warm. Because you do these things for me. You are this way with me, and though it has been such a long time, I am sure you will remember that you can fall in love with me as many times as you allow yourself.

I vow to myself on long runs to tell you all of the things I’ve never said before, but then I remember that we use the same words. You don’t take them out of my mouth, as the old cliché affirms. You read them in my eyes and speak them one by one, as though each syllable deserves its place between us, as we breathe each other in. There are song lyrics I hear and on so many occasions I wish I could compile Etta James, Jeff Buckley, and Rita Coolidge just to make you a lyrical parfait.

Ray Lamontagne would serve as the proverbial cherry on top, saving the best for last.

Is that what we are doing? Is that what we did? Are supposed to do? I have waited for this feeling to come back to me, for you to come back for me. If you are half way there, can I race you to the finish? I don’t know if we will ever be finished, but I am definitely complete.

You are like the sweater I wear around my house, knowing that if I had to part with it even just to throw it in the washing machine, I would feel as though a limb were missing.I haven’t had this sweater very long compared to, say, certain pairs of socks I haven’t gotten around to replacing. I just don’t want anything else wrapped around my skin.

I have missed you for so long, that it isn’t any wonder to me why I can think of a countless number of reasons why. I want to ride on the train with you for hours, forgetting where we are going because we are right here. I want to watch you break a twenty dollar bill at a convenience store because you know a street dweller is going to ask you for a dollar very soon. I want to crawl into our bed while you are reading up on the latest who-knows-what-because-I-can’t-understand-it-and-I’d-rather-you-put-it-down-and-pick-me-up-instead.I need to eat ice cream with you, out of the same bowl. I want to argue with you,so we can make up. I want to run with you, for you, to you. How can we let this go, if we’re already holding on to it? I can’t imagine not having you in my life, because I remember what it was like.

We will see this through.Because this wasn’t Joe Cocker or Gregg Allman’s birthday. It was a day that became ours, the beginning of the unknown and I know it is equal parts confusing and crazy, whimsical and wonderful, exhilarating and emotional, it is still you and me. We are reckless, admittedly, and half way to crashing into each other. And when I step out into your town, I hope you will take a leap of faith into mine.

You can show me around; I will show you the way.

Save As...

Hayley — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 02:59:00 GMT

My father has a Facebook page. So do most people, you say. So does everyone, I say. Which is why I am taking the time to elaborate on the severe and serious issue I am taking up with my FATHER, the man who had to have me save a document on his computer and then re-open it for him every time he needed it. My, “ how the hell do you work this goddamn piece of shit laptop oh there it is thanks honey how did you learn how to do that” father has a Facebook page.

How did this come to be?

My friends and loved ones, that is not what’s important.

What matters is that now, as his oldest daughter, I feel obliged to express my bewilderment and will do so with examples from my childhood, shedding the light on all of the reasons one would not- could not- imagine my dad on any social networking site.

My dad failed typing. Typing? Yes, in high school. He subsequently had to graduate in the summer instead of with his class because of this little mishap. That is not to say that he hasn’t learned how to hunt and peck his way through a keyboard; he certainly knows where the letters are in some capacity, and I could go out on a limb and say that he may have even composed electronic mail once or twice. But we are talking about a man who, since learning how to “save” documents, has “saved” every document with the same heading. He has 87,000 documents all labeled DavidMilks. Who does this?

My dad, who is on Facebook.

When my sister and I were little kids, his idea of going out to lunch was a family trip to Costco. “Go try that sample, Meg,” he would assert. Every aisle would be another bite for me and my sister, and we didn’t think anything was wrong with that. I still don’t.

When we would misbehave and drive our mom to drink- this was before the influx of prescription drugs for sibling rivalry became the cure-all- my dad would threaten and follow through with long boring trips to The Home Depot. I can’t explain why he chose this store in particular. Maybe because, as a general contractor, he needed to go there anyway? It doesn’t matter. He’d drag us there and spend hours fixated on drill bits and two-by-fours, all while scratching his head, I am assuming wondering how many more aisles he’d need to wander to suck the life out of me and Meg.

I will never forget how he’d always top the tortuous trips to Home Depot with a stop at Dairy Queen, and let us get whatever we wanted. Maybe because he knew in twenty years, he’d do something so defiant and inexplicable, like Facebooking.

My sister found a passion for magic sometime around 8 years old. It was a short lived career choice, but she definitely exercised her right to practice being the next David Copperfield on every member in our household, namely our dad. After a bout of hypnotism, she ordered him to skip around the neighborhood. He did it. The only problem with this command was that my dad was apparently born before skipping was taught on your average playground, and so he missed the lesson. Picture a three-legged horse attempting to gallop, with only two fully functioning legs because the third one has suffered a pull in the Achilles tendon, provided horses have Achilles tendons. That was my dad, likely three or eight beers in, for the entire neighborhood to see.

Recently, my parents, my cousin and I decided to go to D.C. for a rally. Yes, we are liberals, and yes, I am aware I might lose some readers with this newfound information. I also, however, might gain some. As we were standing in the subway station on the WRONG side of the subway (we were first time riders, relax) my dad was eating a half dozen Krispy Kreme donuts right out of the box. I was unaware that we were on the wrong side of the tracks until a nice couple that we’d made small talk with, asked where we were staying. When we told them, they told us we needed to be “over there”. At the last minute when the train came screeching to a halt and everyone got on, we sort of looked around before making our way North. Apparently we did not move fast enough because as we stood there and the train roared past us, the wind it kicked up in its wake also stirred up the flakes from the Krispy Kremes and three seconds and six donuts later, we were covered in donut residue. I looked at him with annoyance, and he just casually brushed the sugar flakes off of his shirt, probably ate them, and made his way to the other side.

This is what I am talking about. He does not need to be on Facebook.

My dad came home from the doctor the other day. He had a check up, where he was informed that he was “the picture” of health. He tells me this as he is standing over the counter, eating my mom’s homemade banana bread out of the bread tin, slicing and eating, repeat necessary and often. I respond, “So the twelve chocolate chip cookies a day, Honey Smacks at night, and McFlurry every Tuesday is working out for you?” He says, “Yes, it keeps it all flowing. Apparently I didn’t have to get my papers in order so soon. Looks like I got another six months, at least!” This, from a man who had a stroke a few years ago and the next morning answered his hospital room phone, “Dick Clark’s room, hello?” He is ruthless. Unstoppable.

My dad says he joined Facebook to keep in touch with his brother. I don’t understand how this is going to help him keep in touch with him. He refused to give in the Compact Disc player until cassette tapes became almost obsolete. How is he supposed to stay connected with wall posts, comments, notifications, and RSS feedbacks? I can’t sit here and show him how to do all of this. I will not have him “friending” fan clubs and “liking” people’s posts. This goes against nature.

We are going to have to have a discussion. It’d be like me living in Century Village. Or taking advantage of the Early Bird special at local restaurants. Or moving to Stuart, Florida. It cannot be done. There are age-appropriate activities and my dad joining Facebook is not in the manual.

What’s next? Twitter?

Of all the memories I have of my dad that make me laugh, however recent or age-old, I remember every age and stage being overshadowed with fun. Perhaps this is just one more stint of his to add to my collection of hilarity and legendary humor. Maybe he purposely did this so I can look back on this a week from now, when I have gone on his computer and deleted his page, unbeknownst to him, and have one more memory painted colorfully in my mind, and laugh line etched in my skin.

Russian Roulette: Turntables & Pineapples (or just the making of a record player and a weekend getaway).

Hayley — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:54:00 GMT

I have come to the sad and probably very obvious conclusion that it is never a good idea to join an online dating service claiming to find my “Mr. Right” just a few hours after I’ve researched all of the registered sexual offenders residing in the city in which I live. After committing to memory every face on that list so that I am some sort of vigilante for my daughters, I have begun to confuse some of them with the men that are reportedly single to mingle. This definitely takes the fun and excitement out of pouring through their profiles, my conscience asking, “Wait- haven’t I seen you somewhere else before? Like, on some other kind of registry?”

This doesn’t bode well in the “getting to know you” section of my virtual world, and I certainly don’t need any more complications.

This is what has become of my Saturday night, ladies and gentlemen. Not quite divorced, not quite broken up, I have found myself flopping around like a fish out of water wondering why he baited, casted, and caught me just to watch me flounder on the floor of the boat. And until he unhooks me and throws me back, I google.

Yes, you read that right. I Google all sorts of things. For example, “How long to wait to say I love you,” would be one of the most common phrases that has been typed into my browser. Or let’s try, “How to get over the potential love of your life without having to have him think you’re crazy for ending things when there was really and truly nothing wrong with the progression of the relationship.” That’s a long one, and although I didn’t get an EXACT match to my query, I did get a lot of information on miscommunication and the importance of being earnest. Isn’t that a book?

I was. I am. I tried to be. I am still trying.

The one thing that puzzles me about the whole dating world is how it all feels like one giant playground. Why, you ask? Allow me to explain. Because of all the games people play. If you like me, and you want to see me again, just say so. If you don’t want to see me walk away, don’t let me and I won’t. I don’t want to sit around and wait for someone to make a decision that I should have an equal part in making, just because he thinks there is a chance he will make the wrong one. The only thing wrong with that is… everything. Waiting for something to happen means nothing ever will. The only alternative to being afraid to make a wrong turn means eventually you will hit the wall, and then it will be too late. Considering all of your options until there are no options left besides staying where you are means there will be no history in the making. We won’t make it this way because nothing is being made.

My daughters are in the other room playing “Memory” together. My seven year old is instructing my 2 year old that on the basic rules of the game, and I can’t help but see the irony in this. She is telling her younger sister that she has to play close attention to the first thing she picks up so she remembers what she’s looking for.

I only had to look at you once to know where to pick up where we left off, and where to find you in the sea of faces even when everyone’s back is turned. I let you down once, I know I did, and I thought I could be my own rock. Subsequently, you are your own island; you think it is better this way because you will never have to take a risk in love, and therefore will never have anything to lose. What you are forgetting is that there isn’t much of a difference between you and me, and we are barely holding it together. Throw me back, because I have found my sea legs again and will swim out to you as fast as they will take me.

I’ve heard that you get ninety percent of what you ask for, and I ask for us. If this is true, I am willing to ask you ten times, although I am convinced I have already.

Will you let majority rule?

B, Without You.

Hayley — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 19:34:00 GMT

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. It is starting to show up unannounced and as it wraps itself around me like an unsolicited cloak in the summertime heat, I tell myself I am not going to survive this loss very well.

I want someone who cannot start their day without hearing from me first, and uses that as the spark that ignites the next 12 hours we have to endure before our next encounter. I want someone who thinks nothing of reaching across the bed at night to pull me close, closer, convincing me that this is so much better than the last 18 months I’ve spent sleeping alone. I want him to say what he wants to say, because he means it; after all, the ball is in his court.

It seems ironic to me (and not the kind of irony that makes you laugh and subsequently sigh, reflecting on your misfortune) that I was placed on a pedestal for so many years and could not live up to the standards of all that came with it, resulting in a crack at the base, a tear at the seam, or faulty design. Now I can’t help but think of myself as so far low on the totem pole, the competitor in me is fighting her way to the top, but there is no room for balance up there.

This is not what I had in mind, and believe me, I am the chief underwriter of the “things don’t always turn out the way you plan” school of hard knocks, but I am sincere when I say that I don’t want to fight, argue, battle, compete, for a place on someone else’s calendar, agenda, schedule, heart. And it’s not because I am lazy or feel that I am too entitled to grab up what I feel could potentially be an equal partnership.

It’s simply because I cannot afford to lose and have a gut feeling I already have.

I think what scares me the most is not that he will watch me walk away, but that he will let me. He will let me because he has not yet learned the value of me. I will avoid the opportunity here (albeit tempting) to sound like a want-ad and say something about how much I have to offer, because the truth is, he should know it already. I have made no qualms or false promises about where I want this to go, and who I see us being, but then the hours roll into days, and I will catch just a glimpse of him when the moon is out. A few hours later, I am alone again, waiting by the phone and I feel like that fool I swore I would not b(e).

The offer has been on the table since the day I walked through that door because I am no good at hiding my feelings, and my eyes are a dead giveaway. Do not mistake giveaway for free-for-all.

Maybe it’s just not the right time. Is there ever a right time for love? Maybe his heart is so big, so open, that I have gotten lost somewhere in there. Maybe it is me, or maybe he is in love with someone else or other bigger things just happen to take precedence over the smaller ones. Perhaps I need to fire my mailman, because I’ve missed another memo. I know I am a writer, but I am also a reader and my job as the protector of my heart is to read the clues I am (or am not) given so I don’t trip up again, landing in someone else’s state of mind.

Looking Forward.

Hayley — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 03:05:00 GMT

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. Like I will. Like I can.

Like I am.

Pardon this entry for being so sloppily organized (oxymoron? Probably, yes )and/or for my attempt at trying to cover so many different catastrophes at one time, but I feel the need to get it all out there.

Case in point number 1: I had a fleeting revelation just the other day that it is not so much that I am not the marrying kind; I am. I love to be, well, in love and loved. I just think that people like to unmarry me. I am great at being that wife. The wife that brings you lunch at work, or drops off your wallet to you when you’ve forgotten it in your other pants and it is now air drying because it was washed with this morning’s laundry, but dry in time for delivery, because after all, I have been up just as early as a working person, just not getting “full-time-job” recognition. I am spectacular at biting my tongue when you’ve had a long day and want to talk about it, don’t want to talk about it, don’t want me to talk. About anything. I can wait, and I will keep waiting, for you to find the words to say what you want to say to me the way you want to say it, even if I have to interpret and decode it to hear the beauty in it before it reaches my right ear, and then floats out of my left. I can sit in silence with you and read, watch your favorite movie with you over a hundred times, and put your Wendy’s fast food on a plate for you so that you don’t have to feel like a bachelor whose worked all day and now has to eat his midnight snack out of a brown paper sack.

I can do these things, not for a, “Hey babe, good job” but because I want to. Because I thrive on making sure you are taken care of, and not after I ensure that I am taken care of first. But maybe because I can count on one hand the amount of times those things have been done for me, but it would only take two of mine so that you didn’t have to lift one finger.

Just because I believe in divorce as an option, doesn’t mean I believed it was for me.

So here we are on the phone, and I am appalled at some of the things I am hearing from him, while simultaneously trying to rationalize his need for “self-discovery, freedom, and truth”. After all, wasn’t I guilty of the same crime almost a year and a half ago? Alas, do as I say, not as I do. I want my friend, his wife, to gain strength from this, without losing her husband. I want him to grow up in te next 43 seconds, give or take, and realize he cannot afford to lose his wife. But who am I to advise? I am in the midst of my own divorce. Does that make me an example of what can happen? Of everything that can be lost? I sincerely hope so.

Then again, look at all that I have gained.

Isn’t ironic the way life spins you around. I see him and I feel like my world is tipped on its axis, yet I haven’t felt this grounded in… maybe ever. When I look at him, there is something in the way our eyes lock. I won’t tell him I love him, and it’s not because I don’t feel it. It’s because I know he knows and, if he were a gambling man, I would bet he feels it, too.

My friends have become the walls that protect me. I finally understand what all of those ridiculous picture frames are about- the ones that say, “My friends are everything to me” or “My girlfriends are the ones who shine the light in my hours of darkness”. Well, that last one I’ve never actually seen on anything or read anywhere, but if I did, I could at least understand the truth in it.

I still wouldn’t buy it, though.

Lately, all of my days are shiny. Sometimes they are so bright I have to squint my eyes, making it difficult to tell if it is in part due to the Miami sunshine or a side effect of the huge smile I couldn’t slap off of my face even if I tried. On the other days, the harder they are, the softer I become, and then the tears fall, glistening my skin so that it’s easy to mistake it for a glow. Nevertheless, I shine.

This is why perception is so tricky.

I am glad to be back. I needed to write again, and I’ve missed it more than it probably has missed me. I have been uprooted so many times in the past 18 months, yet it has helped me plant roots in the perfect spot and now, and maybe for the last time, I feel grounded. I can bend, sway, extend a branch, and even offer shelter. And just in case I ever get the urge, I am high enough to see above everything, knowing that it doesn’t and will not get any better than this, but that only we will. And as I grow upward, I can seefeeLheartOuchtastediscoVerlikE every ounce of what I need in my life, and for the rest of it, without wanting- or needing- to fly away.

My wings are clipped, but the cage has been left open, yet still I stand here absorbing us.

Wonderland.

Hayley — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 03:43:00 GMT

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. It is almost as if they teach Kindergartener’s to loop their voices, telling them to sing the parts they know over. And over. And over. And so what if they’re wrong? Does a 6 year old pay any mind to lyrics? Or is it just something that irks me because I am a lyric buff? Take for example, yesterday, when Abbi asked me in arguably the most polite voice I’d ever heard, to please turn the radio off, as she was going to provide the soundtrack for our journey to grandma and grandpa’s house. Now I am no scrooge, and to prove this fact, I quickly- and hiding my reluctance- switched the music off and let her have at it. She began with an innocent rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and at first, it was quite pleasant. Like I said, I am not a curmudgeon and am open to any musical talent my daughter may inhabit, but after the 27^th inevitable “he sees you when you’re sleeping”, I was wishing Mr. Claus would take flight early, and through faulty navigation, mistakenly land on my car and knock me into a coma. This is not to say that I wish harm on my children! I just wish that holiday songs would make themselves scarce this season. We are in a recession, aren’t we? They should follow suit.

I have also noticed that people develop a severe inability to drive as though they were ever issued a valid license. I understand that Miami is overcrowded. I understand that people do not comprehend the idea of a four way stop, or the right of way, or a merge lane. But why is it that during the season of cheer and bright lights, people’s incompetence comes out of the wood work like a red-tag sale? It seems as though they deliberately drive 15 miles slower than the speed limit when approaching a green light, and drive 35 miles over just to slam on their brakes at the red ones. And the idea that decorating one’s car to resemble a reindeer is festive? Who are they kidding? It is still just a 10 year old Hyundai, maybe even a Mazda, but definitely not in any way, shape, or form a contributing vessel for Santa and the overpriced gifts he bears in his sack. Or his reindeer. Or the elves. I don’t care how big the Lincoln Navigator is. It is still an SUV, not a sleigh. Get over it, so I can, too.

I know I sound like I hate the Holidays. I actually look forward to them, and this anticipation starts shortly after Halloween. I love Thanksgiving, although I think we have our own version of it. Still, that is kind of how the U.S.A. works; we sort of embellish the one good thing we did until it is completely stretched over all of the bad. Either way, I will eat turkey with a smile plastered on my face. I really do love Christmas, and if the fact that my mom is Jewish leads anyone to believe that this clearly explains my aversion to Holiday songs, one would be sadly misguided. I hate Chanukah songs just as much. I don’t enjoy “hiding Gelt”, which turns out is just dried out chocolate disguised as “gold coins” too big to really be anything other than pennies. I don’t enjoy reading from the Torah, with my senile Grandmother asking me why my breasts look smaller than they did last year. Maybe it’s something in the Matzo Ball soup? Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t understand why, up until I had my own child, I had to sit at the “kids table”. Do other families do this? It was even a real table. It was a folding card table with the expected uneven leg, so by the end of the meal that none of us enjoyed, the brisket had been knocked over at least 3 times. 3 times, you ask? Seeing as though the youngest of the “kids” at the “kids table” was carrying a restricted license and worked 20 hours a week at Publix, any time one of us “kids” would move slightly to the right or to the left, our knees would hit the underbelly of the table, hence disturbing the thawed out brisket that was probably saved from last year’s dinner. It’s a good thing we weren’t orthodox. Without electricity on high holy days, how would we have re-used frozen food?

I am calm now. There are 20 days left to enjoy before Christmas morning arrives. I need to gather my sanity, as it has been scattered around various parts of the Miami area, and start shopping for my daughters. I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when they wake up Christmas morning to discover what Santa Claus has brought them. Why, just today, Mr. Claus was making his rounds at Publix and Abbi, my six year old, did not believe it was him. “Santa does not grocery shop, Grandma; besides, he looks way too young to be Santa. He looks like a KID.” She said these words to my mother, adamantly.

Maybe, just maybe, it won’t be long before we can dislike holiday music together. Until then, I will keep my radio off and let her sing the soundtrack to all of my journeys in life, whether it’s Christmas songs or not. After all, being a parent to daughters as great as mine makes me feel like every day is a holiday. I can grin and grit through one more rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, as long as they promise to grant me one Silent Night on December 26^th.

Fire and Rain

Hayley — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 01:35:00 GMT

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. She has small feet, and she isn’t very tall, but she took a stand when it was absolutely necessary and has never judged me when I- the taller of the two and the one with bigger feet- sat down defeated, lost my balance and fell on my face.

I remember telling her I was pregnant with Abbi, my 6 year old, before I even told my parents. I was 20 years old, hopeful, and nervous. She was delirious with excitement. I remember thinking, “Yeah, you’re happy, but I’m the one having a kid at 20.” After Abbi was born, she sent me a card, telling me how proud she was of me as a mother and how I had made such a happy home for my daughter. I asked Maria to be Abbi’s Godmother, and she said she was honored. I am not big into religion and I know that whatever amount of God Amelie believes in, it’s enough for me. Amelie and I have always been in each other’s lives, more often than not. I have missed out on one very big milestone of Amelie’s, but this venture will not be one of them.

I received another text today from her and she seemed nervous about becoming a mom. I am no expert, but because I had Abbi so young, many hours of my life have been spent Googling, reading, and asking my pediatrician LISTS of questions about my daughter. When I was pregnant with Alyvia, I “reintroduced” myself to the joys of infancy, but I also became research-obsessed with the pregnancy itself. Effacement, dilation, mucous plugs, when you can and can no longer take a warm bath: you name it, I read up on it.

I loved being pregnant, I loved having a newborn, and I love being a mother.

I love the fact that Amelie is going to be a mother, and this is what I want to say to her:

You will second guess every decision you make. From the time you see the two lines on the pee stick- or the digital readout, circa 2009!!- you will ask yourself if you are ready, and you will tell yourself you are not. You will never be ready. You will wake up in the morning and look down at your belly and wonder about the life that is forming inside of you, because of you, and you will revel in that. You will get out of bed and place your hands on the swell of your abdomen and speak silently to your baby, and to yourself. You will wonder if the water from the shower head is too hot for your skin now. Should you adjust it? Is their literature on this? You will want to know. When you are drying your hair, you will wonder if your baby can hear the noise. Is it too loud? (For the first 3 weeks of Lyv’s life, she would only fall asleep if I kept the blow dryer on. Smart kid. She appreciates the efforts of great hair.)

When you eat breakfast, you will think about the amount of coffee you are drinking. It is okay. You can have 2 cups a day. Trust me. You will wonder about lunch. Is deli meat okay? Yes, it is. Can I still enjoy tuna fish? Yes, you can, as long as you are not consuming more than 2 cans a week. And what about a glass of wine once in a while after the first trimester? Please. Don’t risk it.

When you drive to work, you will be ever so careful when you buckle your seat belt. Soon, it will be uncomfortable to have that strap digging into your belly. You will watch every single car to your right, left, in front and behind you. You will know who is turning left, turning right, who is merging, and who is just an asshole. When you are pregnant, everyone on the road is an asshole because they are in your way and they can harm your baby. Your baby.

Are you ready to be a mom? No.

You will scour stores, looking for things that tell you the purchase of these items will help you “gear up” and be “prepared” for your baby. They will not help. You will find that most of these items require more assembly than they are worth, and that the swings make your baby dizzy. The vibration and sing-song melodies that are built-in do not soothe her like you can, and even though that much-needed shower is calling your name, her cries are screaming louder. There will be special books- read them. They are helpful to track milestones about your pregnancy, or the milestones of your baby. Other than that, they are just other people’s advice. You will find an array of bottles, pacifiers, thermometers, and bath tubs; these things will overwhelm you into thinking that you need the top-of-the-line because it is best for baby. No. What works for him has nothing to do with price or model number. Wait on these things until after he is born, especially the the bottles and the pacifiers. Trust me.

There will be nights when you hate Frank. You will look at him playing his X-box, sitting Indian style on the floor (something you can no longer do) and you will resent him. You might find his cologne annoying, or the way he chews. The fact that he can now eat anything and not worry about heartburn or weight gain will make you want to throw things at him and at other objects. Try not to. He loves you, and feels helpless in his wife’s ability to create this baby in her tiny body, and doesn’t know how or what to say half the time. You will be annoyed when you guys go out with friends and he gets “silly” with the assistance of alcohol; meanwhile you sit there, sober, pregnant, and slightly bitter, because now you have also become the designated driver. The pregnant wife is now the caretaker to a drunk husband. Remember, he is not doing this to you. He is just carrying on with normal, everyday life and soon you will, too.

But you won’t. Nothing will ever be the same. It will hit you again when you assemble the crib (which by the way, if you want to save $800, I would GLADLY give you Abbi and Lyv’s… it’s a great one). You will be on the floor or sitting in a chair, watching your husband put this contraption together thinking, “Yeah right. The baby’s never really going to get here.” You will start to hang his clothes up in the closet and you will do this by month. 0-3 months first, followed by 3-6, and so on. All of her socks and mittens and headbands will be in one drawer, along with the powders, creams, and washcloths. You will place a meticulously bought stuffed animal in her crib, only to remove it once she is really sleeping in there because it is not safe. The only real way you will feel like you are protecting your child is when you are holding him. When Frank holds him, you will check to see if it’s the way you do it. If he puts him in his crib to sleep, you will go in there twice as often as you would had you put him down.

Read the Manual.

Hayley — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 23:48:00 GMT

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.

The Last Word

Hayley — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 23:43:00 GMT

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.

Frame of Reference

Hayley — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 22:48:00 GMT

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.

The Weight.

Hayley — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 02:18:00 GMT

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. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I have to empty out the bank of thoughts that holds my mind hostage and become a chipper and motivational spitfire whose biggest problem is balance, proper breathing and perfect posture.

Today’s class in particular, was very difficult. My mind was elsewhere and it wasn’t focused on yoga. I found myself in plank position, thinking how metaphoric it was. I am literally on the tips of my toes with my palms pressed against the (door)mat that has become my life looking for something that is simply not there.

I come home to myself. There is no one waiting for me when I walk through the door with even so much as a smile that you couldn’t slap off. I come home to a house where the shades have been drawn all day and natural light is not welcome because with it, comes a warmer house. A hot house results in my needing to turn the air conditioning lower and let’s face it: my power’s been shut off this past week already. I can hardly afford the bare minimum. I have acquired an appreciation for a ceiling fan on full-blast, while keeping every light off in the house, save for the room I happen to be sitting in. I often have to leave Abbi and Lyv alone for 3 minutes because taking the garbage out has become my job.

Everything has become my job. Yet, I don’t have time to get one full-time.

When they take a bath, I find it difficult to sit there and watch them like I used to; I now have to use that time to transfer the wash into the dryer. I will ask Abbi to feed her sister as a favor to me, while I throw a salad together (don’t think everything has changed; salad is still the staple of my diet). I now have to wait until I put them to bed just so I can eat dinner without Lyv picking the croutons off of my salad and Abbi putting on dance shows and commanding my attention. After they’ve fallen asleep, I have the urge to wake one of them up just to have someone to talk to.

They are six and sixteen months. What am I thinking?

I come home to silence. I miss the noise and the lights on in every room; I guess I didn’t care about the environment when I was married? I come home and instead of having someone waiting for me, I have things waiting to be taken care of. I have two daughters that can’t see their mother breakdown. I have one in Kindergarten whose teacher expects me to participate in Crazy Hat Day, the PTA Pizza Party and Hispanic Heritage Month, all in the same week. I have another who attempted to eat ants off of our floor with a fork after I had just swept the crumbs out from underneath their table. I have to be in five places at one time because expectations are high, standards higher.

I have Joe Cocker promising me that I will get by with a little help from my friends.

I come home to a place where I know my needs are secondary to my children’s, and sometimes I just don’t want to be the line leader. What I would give just for five minutes. I want to be able to step back and have someone step forward. I miss standing not just by someone, but behind them. My daughters have become a haven for me, where laughing, hugs, and first words are what keep me light on my feet. What I would give if just for an hour I could have someone sweep me off of those toes, instead of stepping on them. To have someone say those first words to me that are so lovely they could almost be mistaken for a foreign language, in which case I wouldn’t even want or need the translation.

I was laying in corpse pose tonight in class, thinking about how alive I am. I am right here, searching for something that maybe never was going to be found. I instructed my students to release all of the tension from each muscle, starting with their toes, ending at their neck. It was only until I asked this of them, that I realized:

I, too, need to let go.