Deuces

I stared at the last text my colleague, Kevin, sent while quietly indulging in froyo from the nearby yogurt shop. After an exchange of camaraderie-infused texts and aptly-placed humor, I thought to myself “I should talk to Kevin more often”.  Because 10 months ago when I met Kevin, and a slew of other new colleagues, in person, I wasn’t ready to get to know anyone.  I wasn’t ready for the relative “bigness” of adding more people to know, and work with, in my life.  It felt like a slap in the face then. To quickly welcome new colleagues on the heels of losing so many former colleagues in the summer corporate restructure felt cruel and unreasonable.   And on a warm July evening as Kevin threw his arm over my shoulders on the last night of our sales meeting to give a kind goodbye, it felt like I was cheating on my former colleagues.  I said nothing in response to his gentle collegiate hug, but chose to walk away from the large group of new colleagues from the new b...

I stopped writing. I can't remember the day, exactly, that the desire all but escaped me, but in knowing myself, and all the ways I retreat from the world when it feels utterly and blissfully chaotic, I can assume it came without notice. I just needed to be away from myself.  I couldn't trust my own words and perceptions, and when the faintest whim came over me to want to write, there were times when the sound of my voice that echoed from writing felt obnoxiously loud. Transparent and vapid. Exposed and anxiety-inducing. But the nagging force of motherhood reminded me it wasn't fair to my kids to not write. For Alana to not know how much her mommy adores her, even on the days I desperately try to escape her and the screeching sound of her wail when part of her granola bar breaks off, or when I pour too much milk in her cereal, or when I don't move quickly enough, or when I breathe and exist in her presence. But really. She's amazing despite the chron...