Deuces

It's been months since I've last had a chance to write.  So long, in fact, I forgot how to sign in to my blog. Alas, I've made it back, folks.  All 3 of you loyal readers (give or take) are in for it.  The most riveting blog to date. All about email. The last few months have kept me busy re-learning to enjoy gym time, hanging out with my kids loads and loads, coaching youth soccer, getaways with friends and family, but what I bring to you today is this moment as I purge my email inbox and outbox. I started with large files and attachments as I prepare my life to move from Google to Outlook. It was astounding to see how many messages I'd sent over many recent years.  If anyone ever says I am not a solid communicator, I present to them the exhibit above. 66,000 emails sent.  Dating back only in the last 4 years.  Plus all the ones I purged manually, tediously, enjoying the slow click of each tiny box and hovering over the trash icon. Felt good...

These girls are growing fast.  Slow.... Fast. Slow.... Fast.  Funny girls.  Wild girls. Clever girls. I want to tell the world about them but grapple with the laziness (or perhaps just fatigue) of the daily grind. Fast.... Slow.... Fast.... Slow.... Like the months well-after potty training has completed successfully where moms and dads are still racing to pottys on a moments notice.  It’s all incredibly benign and eventfully uneventful. (Yes. That’s a thing). Since starting a new school recently, Alana has occasional “accidents” and has seemingly regressed though is rather  practical about her transgressions.  Or non-committal to the idea it was her who peed in her pants.  “Alana we don’t pee pee in our pants” I remind her. “Nooooooooo. It was Sophia. She took my panties and she pee pee in dem’.”  Her tall tales of someone else peeing in her pants is all new. The latest unicorn and faery story she’s adopted since starting at her new Montessori la...

I sat down with a sandwich (and for the record I know food is often featured in my stories and I’m #notsorry I have the body of a 17th century Victorian goddess who also loves #tacotuesday) The sandwich was bomb, guys. The fresh sliced turkey from some fancy deli, and pepper jack cheese and just the right amount of mayo and mustard.  The bread had tiny seeds, also super fancy.  I was at my mom’s and that place is feast or famine central and as I sat down to take a bite Alana implored me, without notice: “mommy you take me potty?” My slight annoyance must have been palpable. Hadn’t I taken her potty only moments before?  And I know I’m a mom and I’m supposed to find trips to the potty to be magical and rewarding but honestly, ya’ll I was hankering for that turkey sandwich and watching “The Intern” on BluRay with my mom.  As I sighed and stood up quickly, lest my little ángel tinkle in her jeggings, I must have looked less than enthusiastic. Alana’s face changed to sur...

“He’s hot”, my 7 year old said as a tweenager passed our table. Pizza still in my mouth, mid-chew, I looked at her, and scanned the vicinity for the boy who passed too quickly.  She’s 7 going on 18, and I could see the goofy, whimsical smile cross her face as she taunted Lloyd and I. We all laughed, and I turned in my chair to say “she thinks you’re hot” to the boy no longer behind us. Sayler’s face flushed pink, quickly turning around, herself now mid-chew as she prepared to face her embarrassment. Alas, she was safe... for now. When did my young daughter start saying boys were “hot”? Was it as her second top tooth fell out? Was it when we were finishing up her 2nd grade year-end Ruby Bridges presentation? Perhaps as her toes pushed out of her cleats, now somewhere between size 12-12.5. My brazen, sometimes shy, clever and wickedly funny daughter thinks boys are “hot” and I may just about die. Die laughing, but nonetheless, death ya’ll.

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.