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...

It’s nearly March, isn’t it? My baby is nearly 3, isn’t she? My husband has a birthday soon, right? And Easter, Mothers Day and  My Moms’ birthdays and Dads’ birthdays, too.... That is spring. But This.  This winter that will come to a close in a few week’s time lingers with the most gorgeous snow-packed mountains.   Southern California marvels at the pounding rain and flurries that touch down on elevations not seen for decades. This is winter, isn’t it? This is my baby, who loves more than anything to snuggle close. Alana who affectionately tells me she loves me loudly and often.  This is my 7 year old who makes me work to retrieve any insights from her day.  Until we curl up together in bed each night when Sayler and I do our “3 questions”. This is us. 

“I wanna go Chris’mas, pleeeeeeeeeeeeze!!!” Alana clasped her hands tightly toward her chest, her eyes closing with her plea. “Okay”, I smiled.  “We’ll go Christmas” And on this last day of winter break, January 6th, 2019, we went ‘Christmas’. And of course what Alana means by “go Christmas” is a desire to go to the snow. (Where she made that relationship between the holiday and a white winter sledding trip, I don’t know, but it’s rather sweet). Alana proceeded to jump for joy, and followed her gleeful dance with a very baritone- “Santa! Ho Ho Ho!!”    (She really is so incredibly cute and vocal).  We enjoyed our short drive up to the mountains and spent a greater part of the day sledding and photo-snapping.  And though we didn’t get a chance to see Santa in January (Alana certainly asked: “I won see Santa”!),  we had a decadent day, with the girls wearing their new snow bibs they received (on the *actual Christmas).

As I pulled into the parking space I was overcome with emotion. It hit me unexpectedly. In a breezy and excited mood, I had been on cloud 9 after an uneventful work day, an amazing spin class, and time in the late evening to go Christmas shopping for my husband and in-laws- it was as close to a perfect day as a woman could want. But as I skirted easily into the open parking spot my heart clenched, and my eyes welled up in tears.  Out of nowhere.  My heart broke in that moment.  I was my 21 year old self.  I hadn’t spent time at this mall in nearly two decades.  Once my “home” mall, when I got older other venues opened up and I moved away, and just stopped coming here.  But now living back in the area I grew up in I find myself transported to places and memories I hadn’t thought on for as many years.  The spot was the same spot I had parked in almost 20 years ago. It was the one where I locked my keys in my gold Chevy Cavalier at age 21.   Only mon...

That city noise was yours, And never really mine, I did my part  To say, again, That city noise is fine, Your say nothing stance; My verbal dance, Were going nowhere, But back. You always chose where, The how, The when; And I’d wait, Again. Who I am; I like quiet, The dark, And space, Feelings taken with grace, Though I often miss  your face. (I often miss your face.) Your chuckle, And gait, Occasional wit, Smile, Eyes, And one special lie, I often miss your face. 

Occasionally, my husband lies. It’s usually about the food I make. I’m not sure why.  It’s not bad.  Usually healthy.  Usually carefully crafted. Oftentimes an elaborate recipe that calls for cumin and garlic salt and other seasonings in the back of the cupboard + some somethings diced and lots of pots and pans to clean.  “I ate already” he’ll say. And I’ll guilt him into at least trying what I’ve made.  And then he lies. For like, The next 10 minutes. Going on and on about how good it is... how I’ve outdone myself, how it’s the best thing he’s has in a long time, how’s he ‘going to take some to work tomorrow’.  And of course I’m not around to substantiate that he’s actually eaten what I’ve carefully crafted. There are a lot of things my husband will let me do for him.  Laundry, arranging medical appointments, buying him clothing... But food. He doesn’t eat the food I make.  (Without lying). Pants on fire.