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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.

Black and Blue

Hayley — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 22:27:00 GMT

Although the only thing keeping me and my husband together at this point is this small little thing called the LAW, neither of us are actively participating in the marriage. He is, however, an active participant of other seemingly exciting extracurricular activities. This was demonstrated this morning when he cocked his head just so, that his neck was in clear view long enough for me to notice the unmistakable shape and color of a hickey. High school personified? Perhaps. Or maybe just blatant disregard to the notion that his wife (this whole legal system really does get in the way sometimes), though at times may not know what she is doing, certainly sees what he has been doing.

This was the first weekend that Jason, my almost-former husband, had seen Lyv in almost 7 weeks. Confession: I welcomed the 2 day break with open arms, as I clutched my cherished bottle of Mango wine that had been sing-songing my name for so long I really thought I’d started to hear things. Jason insisted I meet him in the parking lot of Target on Friday, and I obliged. Sometimes it’s easier to meet in parking lots than it is to argue the reason why it looks bad to “hand-off” an 18 month old in said parking lot. So there we were, separated by one of the parking medians where the Target Corporations have planted such nice foliage, discussing future drop-off and pick-up destinations concerning what is now our only common interest: Lyv. As I handed her to Jason, she began to cry, but I am confident in his parenting skills. I knew if she became unbearable, he’d be driving her back to my house that night and I was okay with this. However, because I had agreed to this arrangement, I had to rush home and enjoy this bottle of wine.

STAT.

I literally shoved the wine inside a 10 pound bag of Publix ice and shut the freezer door with such gusto that I expected someone to applaud my acting skills. I even flipped my hair back for effect. No dice. But the wine was cold within 15 minutes and I was swimming in a sea of giggles within 30. Life was… wait- how long had it been since I’d been alone without at least one child? Apparently too long because it took a half-filled SOLO cup of my beloved wine for me to sustain a slip and fall injury in my very own parking lot while rushing to get into MAN’s car. Before I knew it, I was in full knee-to-ground action, except I wasn’t playing Guitar Hero.

I looked like an asshole. I felt like I sprained my ankle. I knew I permanently damaged my ego. I needed more wine.

Fast forward through a blissful weekend with MAN, where we had made no other plans than to just be together. We slept late, we sat at our coffee place for hours, I went for long runs while he stayed in and played video games. (It is not, in my opinion, healthy to have 2 runners in a relationship. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. He loves my philosophy…) We went out to dinner AND lunch the next day, without worrying about sippy cups, diaper bags, and strollers. And if food ended up on the floor, we knew it was one of us.

It is now Sunday, and Jason dropped Lyv off this morning. It is today that I realize my husband’s extracurricular activities are not in any way parallel to mine. They do not involve making sure Abbi has 2 dozen square cut pieces of cornbread to take to school for her holiday party, which thanks to MAN, we were able to procure. They do not involve getting down on all fours- well, maybe in another context- scouring the contents under her bed looking for a past due library book. She’s only in kindergarten and I’ve already made her delinquent in the eyes of some librarian. God help me. I’m drinking your nectar so any assistance you could muster up would be of great appreciation. My activities involve sneaking a kiss here and there from MAN so that my daughters do not have questions that are beyond their years. I am trying to keep them privy to only what revolves around them in their world: bath time, that it’s not okay to write on walls unless it’s washable crayons, and that as of recent, it is no longer acceptable to eat 3 day old macaroni and cheese stuck to the carpet. Please just throw it away.

Or hand it to me. Please.

I digress. Upon Jason’s returning Lyv this morning, (and no, it was not at Target, but in fact at my house) his car apparently decided not to start. He asked me if I could go outside and jump him. I wanted to say something smart, because it’s in my nature to bark, “Speaking of jumps, what other acrobatics took place while that hickey was being left on your neck, my friend?” Instead, I moved my car over to his and 2 minutes later, he was on his merry way.

My point is this: I understand that in the heat of passion, anyone can get carried away. Finger nails, biting, sucking on someone’s neck for too long, whatever the case may be. But if you are going to drop your daughter off and not hide the fact that you are sleeping around to “fill the lonely void that has become your love life” (which is pretty much the response I got, verbatim) at least wear a turtleneck if you are going to ask your wife for a friggin’ favor. Especially regarding batteries, jumping, and revving of engines.

Thanks so much!

P.S. In the future, when asked, fess up. The difference between a bruise and a love bite is apparent, even to a 14 year old. I should know.

Keep the Change.

Hayley — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 03:45:00 GMT

My ex-husband is re-tying the knot this Saturday and I feel…happy? Yes, I really do. I am at a point in my life where nothing seems to phase me, and if his happiness is riding on another marriage, I say jump on the matrimonial train. As for me, I am opting to take the bus that stops every 3 or 4 miles just so I can get out and look both ways before I decide that, yes, I am heading in the right direction.

When Dylan and I got married, it was what most would call a shot-gun wedding, except no one in our family could afford an actual shot-gun. I am certain we could have bought one from an arms dealer just East of our neighborhood, considering we live in Miami, but we were just trying to get along for 3 consecutive days, without weapons involved. Could you imagine the outcome then? Dylan and I had the kind of relationship that could have been featured on a “Worst Case Scenario” board game. We brought out the worst in each other and I recall him locking me in my own closet once just “until I settled down.”

I don’t even blame him for this; I probably deserved it.

I remember one night he came home late from work reeking of chewing tobacco and beer, I had to re-heat his dinner. Upon his informing me that it just didn’t taste as good because it was re-heated and could I please just time his dinners a little more appropriately, I flipped the entire table over. On him. I told him to see how it tasted when his body heat could do the warming and threw in an insult comparing him to his useless father for good measure.

I was that wild.

When I think back to all of our fond memories, I can truly chalk it up to our being young… and stupid. Who knows anything at the age of 20, much less enough to play house with someone else? Apparently I thought I had mastered the skill of homemaker and wanted to test out the new apron, whisk, and cheese grater we were given by Dylan’s mother. The last time I used an apron was when, at the tender age of 7, I was given an E-Z bake oven, and my mother warned me not to get the chemical powdered brownie mix on my Christmas clothes. As for a whisk, I don’t beat anything. Not in the kitchen at least, and certainly not eggs. Isn’t that what individuals would typically use a whisk for? Please, enlighten me.

I love a cheese grater just as much as the next person, but really, wouldn’t a fork do the trick?

I don’t know where exactly we went wrong, but I do know that 6 months later, divorce court called and its ring was louder than the wedding bells.

We both answered and couldn’t talk fast enough.

The best thing I got out of being with Dylan was Abbi. And what’s even better is that she has taught me the art of tolerance. Every time she does something that so closely resembles him, I can’t walk away from her. She has so many of his mannerisms; she becomes a mope to the extent of being nicknamed Eeyore. She has shown me that although it didn’t work out with me and her dad, Abbi and I are stuck together forever. With this very permanent piece of information, I have learned to not so much adore, but accept her tiny flaws that are definitely overshadowed by her wittiness and quick sense of humor. Those two things were inherited from me, undoubtedly. Just ask anyone.

This Saturday, as Dylan stands before whoever it is that is making him repeat those vows I remember I had such a hard time uttering (my track record speaks for itself right?), I really do wish him well. I know that his fiance’, Amy, is going to do a stand up job. She has lasted longer than I ever did- that’s saying something right? She is great with Abbi, and I imagine she doesn’t flip tables, throw frozen water bottles aimed at foreheads (another time, please), or find herself deservingly being locked in closets. I really didn’t mind being in there, for the record. I have a pretty fabulous wardrobe.

As for myself, I am settled. I am delirious, knowing that I have found happiness within myself, and the MAN I am with is admittedly happier with himself because he found me. The past few months have been a whirlwind of ups and downs, but I am determined to surround myself with positivity and optimism. Who knows if I will ever marry again.

I don’t care to speculate. What I do know is that I will be making one hell of a “don’t” list, including but not limited to, whisks, graters, sifters, and rolling pins. There is so much more to what I have in my life right now that those things can be disregarded. This time, I know what I want and it is so very lose to what I already have.

I might just have to hang my bus pass up. Until then, here’s my stop.

Cash it out.

Hayley — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 03:44:00 GMT

At approximately 8 o’clock last night, I decided to rearrange my living room. Of course I started with the treadmill, because that piece of equipment trumps any other furniture in the house.

I got the urge to rearrange my living room because it’s the closest thing I could get to rearranging my life. So while I have a basket full of toys in one hand, and 3 pacifiers that have been recovered since the couch has been moved, Abbi yells from her bedroom that her room no longer works anymore.

The light bulb blew out. Haven’t I been here before?

I haven’t the slightest idea how to change a light bulb, so no jokes please. I am sure it’s less than 3 steps, but it’s 3 steps I just don’t want to take towards a Home Depot to purchase anything.

That being said, I am going to rely on daylight, much like they did before the invention of electricity became a luxury we all decided we could afford. I am also going to rely on instincts, something many of my close family members and friends may have- upon occasion- misconstrued as my being impulsive. Maybe they’re right. Either way, I have a fifty-fifty chance of succeeding.

Fingers crossed, feet don’t fail me now.

I have come to a crossroads in my personal life, and the journey was not as long as I thought it was going to be. I often find myself in places with people that I can wholeheartedly see myself spending years beside, and I hold fast to that premonition. Is it instinct that leads me to this place, where I fall so hard so fast? Is it then that same instinct that tells me to run as fast as I can as soon as I realize any indication of a “DEAD END” at the end of the sidewalk?

Does the sidewalk really ever end?

How do you know when your ticket is called? And when it is, do you stand there with your arms flailing, so happy to know that is now your turn? Or do you quietly make your way to the front of the line, place the inevitable disappointment on the table and go softly?

Do you know when to fold? Do I know when to raise (hell)?

I hate using clichéd expressions to speak of hardships and how they relate to loving someone. “Throwing in the towel”, and “Putting all your eggs in one basket.” Isn’t that what they tell us to do? When you love someone, are you not supposed to cash in all of your chips and walk around with empty pockets? That’s what I have always done. I think I have put so many eggs in one basket that only the ones on top have survived. The ones on the surface that have never had to bear the weight of the little struggles that fall through the cracks and become hidden have come out shining. The ones that have been buried, that carry so many memories become broken by all of the new and shinier versions of themselves.

And what about throwing in the towel? Are you supposed to stand there and hold on to it, waiting for the right time to set it down? Or does it then become part of you, serving as a souvenir from something that was cut short. My suggestion: Don’t save it for the mess that you’re going to be left alone to clean up that smells like failure.

Sometimes I can sit down and think about decisions I have made without justifying them using expressions my mother uses. And other times, it’s easier to chalk it up to eggs, towels, bridges, and lemonade. One thing I know is that I will never stop loving. People can have the ability to leave you feeling numb to every emotion except guilt, pain, and humiliation. And one MAN I have recently spoken to just said one word, in its simplest form: Sad.

I don’t believe in giving up, but I do believe in walking away before the ability to physically move is taken from you as well. There are times when I know the right thing to do would be to fight it out and come to terms with the idea that I would rather put up with someone’s ability to be a complete ass because I am too miserable to be without him. But is that the advice I would give to a great friend of mine? Do we always practice what we preach? Or do we cross that bridge when we come to it?

Maybe sometimes there are no new words to say to someone familiar who is suffering, so you go with what you know.

But what do you say to someone new, without trying to sound like a used car salesman? Do you offer them a test-drive, and hope that they head toward the right direction? Do you start to quote new things, and pretend to take an interest in something like ancient history, because you want so badly for them to take an interest in you?

Maybe I’ll just let the cards fall where they may.

Fair Trade.

Hayley — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 23:36:00 GMT

I’ve never much been a fan of amusement parks. I think they are a place where expectation meets disappointment. From the moment you walk in, you are overwhelmed with all of the spectacular lights, crispy golden food, and rides that promise the thrill of your life. I never know where to begin, so I sort of move along with the crowd. For hours, I will stand in lines that are unforgiving in their length, only to be mock-excited for 45 seconds. I will try to re-arrange the pre-arranged menu options at every hotdog vendor looking for something that most closely resembles the farthest thing from a coronary-on-a-stick. And when I get too close to the lights that I thought at first glimpse were so magical, I realize they are just store bought Christmas lights strung together, working at full capacity on their last leg.

Lately I have begun to feel like my life has taken an all-you-can-ride-for-a-flat-rate ticket into an amusement park. My body is witnessing, with eyes wide open, my emotions being strapped on a rollercoaster.

Lest we forget those safety belts are not exactly up to standard.

I feel so much, that I don’t remember what it’s like to just be. I am in a terrible state. And I am not talking about my physical presence, which happens to be in Florida.

I am in love. And it hurts.

It hurts because it is with so much feeling that I can’t separate myself from this MAN to be able to tell whether I need to grab a hold of myself before we both let me fall. It hurts because I have such a grasp on what I want and what I need that I can’t see my life without desire and necessity. He seems to hold on to both of these. And so I hold on to him.

I have never fancied the Tea Cups. I don’t understand how one would find pleasure in spinning within a spinning circle. Is it sort of like the snowball effect? Once you’ve allowed so much to flow out of the cup, does it matter if you roll up your pant legs?

You’ve already gotten your feet wet just by standing outside in the rain puddle for so long.

How about the Gravitron? I think it’s slightly counter-productive to appreciate gravity- and the beauty in the independence of being able to take a stand on your own two feet- if you are being forced up against a wall. The feeling of being obligated to stay in one place, watching everyone around you follow suit, is suffocating.

The Polar Express was one that I didn’t mind waiting in line for. I think about it now, and being pressed up against the person you are forced to sit beside just makes you feel more out of touch.

It isn’t fun anymore.

I think amusement parks, with every twist and turn those rollercoaster’s offer, are each a metaphor for the ups and downs in life. Whether you bought a ticket, or someone else invited you on, we can’t help but risk our hopes.

We even risk our illusions, until sometimes they become delusions.

We put everything on the line when we enter through that gate that promises so much. Fun. Flashing lights. Excitement. Crowds watching. Gaping smiles.

When we are there, do we ever really get all the good without the bad? Are we disappointed? Humiliated? Fooled? Promised?

Torn?

Some of us may never leave, and it is because of this that we cannot look back and decide what should be done. We are the ones who are waiting for the rides to stop, the disassembly to start. We are the ones who don’t know when to walk away.

So we opt to stand still and watch everyone else feel what we thought we could, until we wake ourselves up. Or until the MAN says it’s time to leave.

My Skin.

Hayley — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 20:06:00 GMT

My mom is 53 years old and doesn’t look a day over 40. For those of us still in our 20’s, and even in our 30’s, this may not seem such a spectacular feat. But to look 40 naturally, in an age where Botox and Nip-this-Tuck-that is at the forefront of everyone’s jaw line, my mother takes the (low calorie/margarine-not-butter) cake. She might not eat the cake, and maybe that’s why she looks the way she does, compiled with years of exercise and great skin care cleansers. The point is, she is on other side of 50, and I have heard from many women that once you have crossed over, you seem to let things go. You may not argue with people the same way you did; it’s not that you don’t care about the issue at hand, it’s just that you’ve been around long enough to know that people don’t change, and very rarely do their opinions. Women over the age of 50 also seem to really come into their own. They don’t mind if, while wearing a sleeveless shirt, their arms don’t so much resemble Madonna’s. They worry more that maybe Madonna just needs to consume a burger and fries once in a while, instead of picking at her daughter’s organic zucchini. Not that there’s anything wrong with organic; I buy it just as much as the next person, IF it’s on sale. Hey, it’s tough out there.

Women over 50 seem to take things more in stride, less in strife. They let go, they learn to live. They learn to accept themselves, forgive others, and love their flaws and faults. Because my mom is 53, not 49, or even just flat out 50, I was relieved that she had 3 years on her back to prepare for the unexpected.

She wasn’t prepared for my 1^st divorce (guys, please, I was married for 6 months; in Hollywood, that’s called a stint), as she was 47 years old. It hit her hard, and I remember my dad telling me it was breaking her heart to see me going through this at the ripe age of 20.

Way to go Hayley!

When I told her Jason and I were on the brink, she seemed more concerned for our kids, and the precedent I was setting: “You’re 27 years old, with 2 failed marriages, what is wrong with you?” I even got the impression that her mind was reeling with thoughts of, “What will I tell people? What kind of daughter did I raise?” At one point she even said to me, “What kind of an example are you setting for your girls? One that says their mother can’t keep a marriage together?” I was prepared for all of this, and was even prepared for the requisite silent-treatment I felt was dished, or thrown, at me for a few months.

Now that the dust has settled, and I have been pardoned from exile, my mom and I have regained our mother-daughter friendship and I feel like she has discovered things about me, and about the way I am able to love people.

And I love someone. I have fallen in love with my daughters more in the past 6 months because of this person. I have realized that playing Wii, while eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches is a perfectly acceptable and sensible version of “dinner and entertainment” on a Wednesday night. How my and this MAN’s life have changed. I couldn’t wait until my mom got to witness her daughter, more care-free than ever, and smiling again, even if it was a Sunday night at 8:30 and the kids still weren’t in bed. With this MAN, I became relaxed, started to appreciate the little things, while also learning that the smallest of things didn’t matter.

When my mom met him, I hoped she saw why I fought so hard against the grain. I have always done things the hardest way possible, and have defended my reasoning, even if I knew I had kicked both of my own legs out from underneath me and was having to borrow someone else’s. Luckily for me, this MAN has never been one to walk the line either; we could both have a seat and lean on each other.

I wholeheartedly am convinced that, due to my mom’s 3^rd year in her 50’s, I was able to make her see things in a more civilized manner than I would have been able to had she been 47 again.

Which brings me to the oh-so-big-surprise that my mom had to endure just a few months ago, and I am happy to say that this time, it had nothing to do with me and my inability to hold down a marriage. Rather, it put her in a position to imagine a daughter who may never BE able to marry, let alone marry successfully. One daughter who, until now, couldn’t stay in love with one man; another who tried to love just one, but couldn’t stay because she was sacrificing herself.

My sister is gay.

She told my dad first, and it wasn’t a complete shock to him. It wasn’t a complete shock to anyone, really, but my dad comes from a family that has their fair share of shocking admissions. At last year’s thanksgiving, our “everybody-gather-round-for-our-redneck-prayer-session-before-we-eat” was missing a cousin who, at the sight of more than 4 people in the room, snuck off to smoke the last of his high quality marijuana before having any kind of encounter with Jesus at the dinner table. Upon hearing of my sister’s coming out, my dad’s oldest brother, confessed that he too, might be a lesbian because of his affliction towards women, as well.

Needless to say, my dad’s side of the family are accepting, loving people; even more so when beer is involved. Hunting and airboat rides are also a plus.

My mom found out through a text message. Maybe my sister felt this was the path of least resistance, and really, once you send a text it lands somewhere in the face of the receiver. It isn’t like a phone call, where you can dodge and roll your way through and around the subject, until you realize that maybe today is just not the day to come out with it. No pun intended. Whatever my sister’s reasons were for texting this information to my mom, she did not handle it as well as my dad did. And I don’t think being on the wrong or right side of 50 would have helped.

I think my mom had a plan for my sister and me. She had hopes and dreams, and we have so deviated from these wishes that now she is taking it personally. I don’t think my mother’s reactions to my 2 divorces and my sister’s being gay are selfish; I think as a mother myself, they are justified in the name of fear. My mom is scared for us. She is scared that I don’t know what I am doing with my life. She looks at the way my daughters look at her daughter, and she wonders why I can’t settle down.

I have wanted nothing else in life than to settle down. But I will not settle.

She looks at my sister, who just a few months ago, was engaged to her future son-in-law. She is scared that now Meg will never be able to have any semblance of a normal life; the type of normal my mom has envisioned using the pieces of the very own puzzle she created. What she isn’t seeing is that my sister and I have broken the mold, using the strengths and asserting an independence that has been embedded in us BECAUSE of our mother. My sister and I are learning more and more everyday about ourselves and about each other, and her “coming out” is really just her coming into her own. My sister is lucky enough to have found herself at 25, half the time it takes most women. My sister and I have spoken more in the past 2 months than we have this whole year. We are actually-and finally- what my parents always wanted us to be.

We are friends, by choice. We may not be college graduates (yet!), or successful career women (in time). We may not be married off to men whose only flaw is their love for NFL football 16 weeks out of the year (add in the playoffs, topped with the Superbowl, says MAN). We might have found what makes us smile, even if it happened in the most off-schedule and unconventional way. We are without a plan. But we plan to never be without.

My sister is happy.

I am elated.

(My mom will be 54 in 2010, and I know that whatever my sister and I go through, she will have one more year under her (size 6) belt, and be that much stronger. Or maybe the more comfortable she gets as she nears her mid-50’s, she will just loosen up her belt to make room for even more concessions. If it makes her feel better, she can even chalk it up to life’s bullshit.)

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.

Online Worlds Colliding, by Kelly

Hayley — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 15:46:00 GMT

I feel like this right now.

I made the huge mistake of sending my Mom an email. Sounds harmless enough, right? EHHHH, wrong. My commentary in the email made my Mom consider, even if only for a second, joining Facebook. Fuck.

In the email, I sent my Mom a picture of a family that we used to know when we lived in Miami. We lived in Lake Village, this small community of townhomes where everyone knows everyone else’s bidness, where the kids have their first kisses with other kids in the neighborhood while their parents scream at each other at the “town hall” meetings held in the rec room.

The picture I sent her was of another mom she was friends with, her daughter (whose older sister I was friends with) and their son, who we last saw in diapers. The picture was of the family at the son’s high school graduation.

Five minutes after I send the email, my phone rings.

“Hiiii Mom,” I answer.

“She’s so well preserved,” she says. (‘She’ being her old friend, who really does look gorgeous.)

Well preserved? Like a mummy?

I forgot to mention that in the same email, I wrote that the well preserved mummy (badum bum) was on Facebook, and I told her that Julie’s mom, and Monica’s mom, and a bunch of other moms of my friends were too.

Now why did I go and do something so stupid?

I don’t want my parents on Facebook. I talk about them. A lot. Not in a bad, like they totally suck and I can’t stand them way, but in a funny way. A harmless way. But I can just hear my Mom calling me at work saying, “Why did you saaaaaay that about me,” after reading something I wrote about how she bought a tie-dyed T-Shirt at Haight Ashbury in San Francisco with a pot leaf on it, and threatened to wear it to Publix to piss me off. Shit like that. Comedy gold. How can I help it?

My Mom asks me why I told her the other moms were on Facebook. “Are you trying to make me feel technologically retarded since I wouldn’t know how to work it?” You see? YOU SEE?

She asks me if it costs anything to be on Facebook. I almost said yes, since I realize this would completely deter her from it as she refuses to use her credit card online. She asked me how “people find people” on Facebook. I explain the process, and tell her she can even make her profile private. That took about fifteen minutes to explain.

“How do people find you then,” she asked. They don’t, I told her, as I’ve set mine to private, and made my name unsearchable (mostly so students can’t stalk me). “Ohhhh, sneaky,” she giggled.

I may have dodged the bullet as far as having my Mom be on Facebook, but my Dad is another story.

I have a horrible confession, you guys. I was at my parent’s house one day helping my Mom forward an email (YES) and I happened to see that a friend of my father’s had sent him an email requesting he join Facebook. After two seconds of sheer panic, I clicked on the email and deleted it. My Mom asked, “What’d you just do?” I made up some technical stuff that was over her head to confuse her and she was fine.

My Dad being on Facebook would be disastrous. He’s much more computer saavy then my Mom is, as he sends texts via Blackberry and knows how to forward and CC someone on an email.

Sidenote: I sent my Mom a text once for fun, knowing it would confuse the shit out of her. I get a call a few minutes letter and she says, “Why is a big envelope on my phone screen right now?” I explain. She reads the text which says something cheesy like, “Hi Mom, love you” and says, “Thank you.” That’s it. No discussion on how to reply back, no questions on what a text message is. Nothing. She even keeps a list of phone numbers in her purse because she had no idea how to program a number into her phone. I spent about five minutes one day doing it for her, and explained how to press a number down on the phone to speed-dial me, my Dad, or the vet (she’s on a first name basis there apparently) but I still see her pull out that paper to call my Dad on his cell. Dammit.

Anyway, I can just see my Dad making some wiseass comments about my status updates, totally busting my balls (or ovaries, since I don’t have balls) and saying something way more funny than I ever could. I accepted long ago that my Dad is cooler than me, but don’t necessarily want everyone to know. (I’ll just write it on a public forum then, right? O.K.)

My Dad is like the musician that you love (and he really is a musician, too!!) that you want nobody else to know about because it makes you feel superior. When my friends find out about my cool Dad, they’re all, “Your Dad is SO cool,” and I’m all smug like, all, “Oh, I know.” It’s a nice process. I can’t give that up.

And honestly, some stuff I don’t want my parents to know about. I posted a comment a few weeks ago, joking that I was a “MILF” after I randomly got asked out. I’d rather not have the conversation with either of my parents explaining what a MILF is, thanks very much.

But for now, I’m safe. I feel though it’s only a matter of time until I get an email that my Dad has requested me as a friend, and I’m sure everyone within a fifty mile radius will know since I will scream. Loudly. Because, “It’s just common sense, anybody knows you keep the worlds APART!”

Thanks, George Costanza.

Blame

Hayley — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 14:26:00 GMT

By Kelly

    My marriage has been shaky, practically teetering on the edge of not making it, since the very beginning. We were engaged after only dating for six months, and I found out we were pregnant before we were married. I was horribly sick while pregnant and was forced to quit my job. Arguments over money seemed to happen constantly, and we were unable to enjoy anything vaguely reminiscent of being “newlyweds”. Three years have passed and we still argue constantly, but know better than to do so in front of Danny.

    Even though I try not to think about it too much, my marriage tends to bring out the worst in me. I’ve gotten angrier than I ever thought possible, heard things come out of my mouth that don’t even sound like something I would say, and it makes me feel like shit. My buttons are constantly punched (we passed pushed about two years ago), and it becomes difficult to continue to hold my tongue, especially when Danny is involved.

     I’ve already mentioned that we sleep with our son. There seem to be a trillion reasons for us doing so, but there’s one main reason it’s still happening. When we moved into our three bedroom condo, my husband immediately started painting “Danny’s room”. He was still in a crib then, and I felt more comfortable having that in our bedroom. A few months after we moved in, a friend of my husband’s moved up from Tampa. My husband explained that he would only be there for a couple months, so he moved into “Danny’s room” since it had a closet (unlike the third bedroom we now use for storage). I didn’t think it was that big of deal because Danny was still too little for his own big boy room, and I thought George’s friend would only be with us for a little while.

    I have no concept of time, but I believe that was over six months ago. Probably more. I’ve grown to absolutely adore George’s friend, who has become like family to me and an uncle to Danny. He helps around the house, is polite, cooks (!!!), and is generally more pleasant to be around than my own husband. Needless to say, I can’t see him ever leaving, and wouldn’t want him to.

     Rewind to two months ago. Danny and I were sleeping, and George was in the living room watching television. A loud thump woke me up, and I jumped out of bed and immediately heard Danny screaming. He’d fallen off the bed. It’s not a short fall either, as we have a huge king bed that’s at least Danny’s height off the floor. He was fine, but it scared the shit out of me. In tears, I told George that Danny definitely needed his own bed, that the bed railing we’d put up and barricade of pillows wasn’t cutting it anymore. He said he’d talk to our roommate about moving into the “storage” bedroom.

    Cut to last night.

    I have a cold, so I’d taken some Nyquil and passed out. I vaguely remember Danny being in the bed with me, but nothing more. Whenever George falls asleep with Danny (rarely) I tiptoe in every thirty minutes or so to make sure Danny’s still breathing (I STILL do this, and have since he was a day old) and that the barricade of pillows is still in place. George would think I’m crazy if he knew this, especially since he consistently comments on how “paranoid” I am and rolls his eyes if I react “too dramatically” whenever Danny falls or has an accident. I am a parent, but certainly not a dramatic one. I’ve taught Danny from the beginning that if you have a little accident (or a little fall) you can laugh at yourself and get right back up. I guess in my husband’s eyes there is a fine line between being “dramatic” and normal.

    But back to last night…

I’m knocked out, and I hear the dreaded thump. Even in my Nyquil induced haze, I get that panicky someone’s-punched-me-in-the-stomach/holy-shit-something-is-wrong-with-my-kid feeling. Danny’s fallen again. Even though he’s yelling loud enough to wake someone up in the next county, he’s fine. George comes rushing in and asks me what happened. He’d been playing video games in the other room (surprise, surprise) and heard Danny fall.

Immediately, he says, “What is wrong with you?” Since I’m drugged up, I shake my head and ask him what he means. “This is the SECOND time he’s fallen when in bed with you.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

George was upset, obviously looking for someone or something to blame, and made me the target. Never mind the countless times I’ve come home from work to find Danny with a lump on his head, and George with some ridiculous explanation like, “He jumped and hit his head on the table,” and me left thinking why the fuck weren’t you watching him but holding my tongue. Our kid was/is fine, and that’s what matters.

After George left the room, I started to wake up slowly and step of out the Nyquil haze. I got angrier and angrier and angrier. Danny fell back asleep within minutes, but I laid in bed stewing. Rather than walking out of the bedroom and confronting George in front of our roommate (and God forbid walk in front of the television and interrupt a game in process), I calmly sent him a text message. It was after eleven, so I questioned him about not coming in earlier to see if the baby had proper pillow “blockage”. I explained that I didn’t even remember the baby crawling in bed with me since I was literally sick and tired. I also reminded him that this never would have happened, had he had the balls to say something to our roommate about moving rooms so Danny could have his own bed that would undoubtedly be much closer to the floor. I also thanked (yes,thanked) him for reminding me what he’s really like.

Making me feel like a shitty mother says more about my husband than it does me. Blaming me for an accident was cruel, unnecessary, and says a lot about the lack of solidarity in our marriage. It’s become a game of who’s right, who’s the better parent, and who can get the last word in.

And it’s not working.

I thanked my husband for reminding me what our life shouldn’t be like, but is. I can only hold my tongue---and my marriage together---for so long.

(before I take my foot out of my mouth and shove it in his ass.)

La Grange-

Hayley — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 04:17:00 GMT

La Grange

There are some songs that I can no longer listen to and it is because of the way I love them. This happens when you place such an importance on music and have it relate to every single scenario you have found yourself in. Especially those situations where you realize there wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be, and all you do is long to be back there once again. Someone once said to me, “This is the reason musicians write songs. This is what singers sing about.” I never thought to ask, “Is that why I can speak to you in lyrics? Is that why I can look at you and see the titles of certain songs in your eyes?”

I wonder how that all ties into learning when to let go, and holding on for dear life.

I try to look cool sometimes. I roll my car windows down, (some people can't do this without it resulting in an uneven sunburn on the arm that fell victim to the sun...) casually slip on my aviator sunglasses and blast very specific music. Babe I’m Gonna Leave You seems to be my theme song as of late, and I swear I can listen to it 6 times a day. In a row. I have very vivid memories sitting on a porch analyzing this song, sitting in a car hearing it, and then listening to it with the same person on the highway countless times.

I swear we are the only people who have this depth of appreciation for it, and now it doesn’t- and won’t ever- sound the same.

But back to me trying to look cool. I am no Tom Cruise, but I am a fan of Tom Petty. I can appreciate “Free Falling” just as much as the next 27 year old mother of 2, right?

Wrong.

I have my 6 year old, Abbi, in the front seat- because she likes to look cool, too- telling me to stop singing “Zled Zeppelin” because I embarrass her, to turn down the music because it “hurts her ears and [she has] a headache” and to roll the windows up because the weather is “messing up her hair.” I have resorted to saving my favorite songs for when I am alone, but that seems to be the problem. I have become so used to sharing these songs that now, having to listen to them on my own is deafening. I wonder if I am the only one who is suffering through this. Is There Anybody Out There? Should I just try to Enjoy the Silence? I think what happened is that I became so reliant on someone else’s ability to feel the way I felt- the way I still do feel- that I have become desperate to understand why I am the one having to explain this to myself.

Baby, Baby, Where Did Our Love Go?

As I sat on my couch Saturday evening, I didn’t want to listen to AC/DC. AC/DC is your average “get-up-and-go” party music that you blast while you’re in the shower, getting ready to go out and explore the limits of your sexuality. I wanted to be Buried Alive in The Blues and hope that my Lover should have come over. Everything in my world, every memory I have, can be chalked up and described word for word by the background music.

How do I just Let It Be? I can’t. So I’ll wait for you, and I’ll burn. Will I ever see your sweet return?

When I go out for a run, I bargain with myself. If I run just one more mile, I will see your face at my door. If the get to the light before it turns red, I should listen to a different song.

Is it always going to be like this? Will it get easier? Am I the only one? For You?

On my way to school tonight, I decided to give the loud blaring music another shot. I still couldn’t bear to hear any Led Zeppelin, so I tried The Stones. I put the windows down, slid my aviator’s onto my face, and let the wind mess up my hair. As the sun was setting and I was illegally driving through the Sun-Pass lane, paying homage to all of those who have been caught in this lane before realizing they were too far gone, I had one last request: Is it Only the Lonely that live their life through song because they feel like no other person can truly understand the weight of their thoughts and the depth of their love?

I want someone to answer this question. I don’t know if I am better off With or Without You. And if I think about it too much, I wonder if it was all A Dream.

P.S.(Then again, I Can’t Make You Love Me. Or show you how to show me.)

Hurry Up and Wait- by Kelly

Hayley — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 14:58:00 GMT

My husband has ADHD. I realized this within the first five minutes of meeting him. His feet tapped incessantly. His eyes quickly scanned the room, even though we were having an intense conversation. And the thoughts seemed to rush out of his mouth, in a hurry to get out and be somewhere else.

He grew up with parents that never noticed, who never did anything to help him. In their defense, ADHD was not as prevalent (or advertised) as it is today, and they didn’t have a degree in counseling like I do. I wonder though, how a person with such obvious brilliance fought his way through school, barely making it, getting in trouble constantly, unable to sit still in class, saying things out loud that should have been kept inside, was able to get through life never thinking once that it shouldn’t have been so hard. Like his family, he also held the belief that people in my profession were useless, that problems should be neatly ironed out in the confines of one’s home, never to be spoken with anyone else, especially with someone outside their circle.

When I asked him if he’d ever been diagnosed, he looked at me like I’d grown a third ear. “All that stuff is crap anyway,” I remember him saying. “People nowadays are diagnosed with anything and everything. There’s no merit in it.”

What he failed to realize was the huge impact his behavior was making on our relationship. He was late often, but in the beginning I told myself it was a Hispanic thing. Anyone growing up in Miami knows there are two times: regular time, and Cuban time. I thought he just ran by the latter. I was patient and let it slide most of the time, but there were some instances that I still can remember even five years later.

My roommate and I were waiting for him in my car. He was only “five minutes away” thirty minutes ago. It was my roommate’s birthday, and we ended up being an hour late to her party because of him. Missing a flight back to New Jersey (where he lived before we moved in together) more than once. And when I got pregnant, being late to every single doctor’s appointment, where he rushed to meet me from work. I can see him now, running in with only thirty seconds to spare, red in the face and sweating. And one very important doctor’s appointment when I was pregnant, when the doctor was worried about possible cancerous cells on my cervix. A gnarly procedure was scheduled, and I thought it best that we go together, in the same car. Two minutes before we were to leave, I remember crying, begging him to come with me and forget about “running over” to his place of work (in the opposite direction of my doctor’s office) “just for a second” to drop something off. I knew we would be late, so I left without him. He showed up at the doctor’s office just in time to hold my hand. He was late for what could have been cancer.

Being brought up in the mindset that on time is actually five minutes early, his lateness caused huge problems in our marriage. He didn’t see it as a big deal, and would actually make me feel bad for ever getting upset. Every time he was late, I felt like he was saying that whatever he had to do (even if it was sleeping) was more important than me. More important than me being upset.

After having what seemed to be the fiftieth conversation with him about ADHD, he finally agreed to see a doctor about it. It wasn’t only the lateness, you see. It was also impulsivity, thinking without speaking, and inability to complete any task without interruption. It was buying a car, without even calling me when we were married. Twice. It’s feeling like I was the most important thing in the room until something else caught his interest. And even after a concrete diagnosis and medication, he still thought the concept of ADHD was complete bullshit. I did all the research I could, staying up late at night to pour over websites about adult ADHD, it’s symptoms, and support groups for those who have it, and surprisingly enough, those who are married to someone who has it. He truly believed that he was disabled, that what he had wasn’t real, and that the diagnosis meant that “something was wrong” with him. I told him that people like Michael Jordan and Steven Spielberg have been diagnosed with ADHD, along with other with many other geniuses (Walt Disney, Robin Williams, Jim Carrey) throughout the years. He didn’t realize that his “disability” was actually a gift in disguise. His quick wit, intelligence, creativity, energy, and passion are among the things that made me fall in love with him.

From my own experience with anxiety and depression (something that I’ve dealt with forever, that has affected almost all the women in my family) I’ve learned that realizing you need help is tough, and actually getting it can be frightening. Also, apologizing to those you’ve hurt along the way is something that needs to be done, no matter how daunting it may seem. I commend my husband for giving in, going to see a doctor, and for taking his medicine, even if he doesn’t remember every day. Even though he’d never admit it, he’s recognized the impact his behavior made on me, and chose to go in another direction. Like they say, life is all about choices. The way we choose to treat ourselves, and most importantly, the way we choose to treat others.

I can’t say that everything is perfect, or that he’s always on time. Things are better, but not flawless. The fact that a chronically late, fast talking, wonderfully effusive person can meet and fall in love with an obsessively on time and (mostly) calm person speaks volumes about hope. And love.

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, MAN. 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.