ruMIRNAtions

The Year of Living Fearlessly -- Feat 2: Do Nothing

2012-01-15T16:18:00.000-05:00

In the pursuit of knowledge,

every day something is added.

In the practice of the Way,

every day something is dropped.

Less and less do you need to force things,

until finally you arrive at non-action.

When nothing is done,

nothing is left undone.

-Lao-tzu

I stopped working full-time on November 15, 2011. When I left, I had a laundry list of things I wanted to do: start writing my second novel; write and submit several articles to various magazines for publication; get an agent for my novel, clean out my kitchen cabinets, the list went on and on.

In the two months that have passed, however, I have found myself doing next to nothing. When I need money, I work, but other than that, I have simply rested. I meditate. I sleep when I need to. I read what I feel like reading.

Doing nothing has left me a bit conflicted. Growing up, I was always doing something - anything - to avoid being labeled lazy, or slow or dumb. So I was constantly doing. Even when I felt tired, I did. When I felt sick, I did. I worked two jobs while going to school full-time. I worked while pregnant. I worked after Brendan was born. I often worked after Bren went to bed. I was just constantly going.

But I have decided to stop listening to everyone else, to stop functioning on autopilot and start listening to me. And I have decided to be still and do nothing. At least for now. So that is what I am doing. Nothing. And it's amazing.

The Year of Living Fearlessly - Feat #1

2012-01-05T09:09:00.001-05:00

Hola, mi gente. A new year is upon us.

Back in September, I told you that I was committing to living fearlessly for 1 year. To that end, in October (on my 41st birthday, no less!), I quit my job.

Let me back up a little. For a few weeks before that, I had a buzzing in my soul telling me it was time to move on. I ignored it. (Seriously, who listens to a buzzing in their gut?) But as much as I ignored it (or tried to, anyway), the buzzing got louder and louder. And what baffled me, is that while it was certainly not my "dream" job, work was good. I was earning a decent salary; the people treated me well. Granted, I was feeling a little burnt out and didn't spend as much time with Brendan as I wanted to. Still, why the urgency to move on?

But the buzzing continued. And I felt to my core (again, with the gut!) that I had but a small window of opportunity to make my move. So, after many arguments with Big Bren ("Are you effing crazy?? Who the hell listens to a buzzing in their gut??") and many discussions with my friends ("Dude, you really need to think this through. Do you know what the unemployment rate is right now?"), I decided to listen to the buzzing in my gut and I quit.

For a week after I took that huge leap of faith, I hyperventilated. Had I lost my mind? I visited the land of Worst Case Scenario: my family would be homeless; my "trophy" car would be repossessed; and -- worst of all -- I would have to borrow money from my parents!

Then, a minor miracle happened. My boss approached me about an independent contractor gig with the firm that would allow me to work from home. I could pick and choose the assignments I wanted and work as little or as much as I wanted to.

That was exactly the work situation I have always wanted, but thought was impossible to get! I could work on my own time (I'm a night owl) and be home when Brendan got off the bus from school. Best of all, I could dedicate some time to my writing and focus on getting my creative projects off the ground. Talk about an answered prayer ...

So I'm happy to report that my year of living fearlessly got off to an amazing beginning.

Happy Birthday to Me!!!

2011-10-25T20:21:00.000-04:00

The Ring Bear

2011-10-24T08:03:00.001-04:00

My parents are approaching their 50th anniversary. To celebrate, they are renewing their vows and throwing themselves a lavish wedding, since they never had one.

My mom has been trying to find a role for all her littlest grandchildren to play, so that they feel like a part of the festivities. And so it came to be that Brendan became the ring bearer.

As we drove home from my parents' home yesterday, I told him the good news. He seemed excessively happy, clapping his hands and cheering. Then, he turned to me and said, "so when do I get my costume?"

"You don't get a costume. You'll wear a type of suit called a tuxedo."

"But you said that I was going to be the 'ring bear'! Don't I need to get a bear costume?!?"

And, suddenly, the happiness was explained.

Those Who Do Not Learn From Their Mistakes ...

2011-10-20T22:57:00.004-04:00

They say that the truth peeks its head out jest. And one of my husband's running "jokes" is that although I have multiple degrees, I often don't "get" things. At first, I laughed along. After all, what fun is life if you cannot laugh at yourself? And, let's face it, oftentimes it takes me a second or two to get a joke or to figure out how to put something together and my sense of direction blows. I am often "literal," where "abstract" is the word of the day. I get that. But after 10+ years of being the butt of the "she doesn't get it" jokes, my laughter has dried up.

Case in point: my birthday is coming up, so I compiled a list of things that I need, but am too cheap to buy for myself and sent the list to Big Bren. At the top of the list is Microsoft Office for Mac. Within seconds, he calls me and the coversation goes like this: "I got your list. Didn't you buy a copy of Microsoft Office a few months ago?" "Yes, but that was for the PC." "But it had multiple permissions, right? And we only used one." "Yes, but it was for the PC." "How many permissions did it have? Can't you use that?" Sigh on my end, "No." "You don't get what I'm saying. You can be so dense sometimes." Click.

I looked at the phone for a good minute, trying to decide what to do. Should I let this go? The more I considered letting it go, the angrier I got. Soon, a blind rage filled my mind. I dialed his number and called him a few choice names that were a lot worse than "dense."

Of course, the irony of it was that it was he who was not getting it: I could have purchased 10 copies of Microsoft Word with 100 applications each -- the fact is that you cannot make software formulated for a PC load onto a MAC as they have two different platforms.

Granted, I am extremely sensitive on the intelligence issue: during alcohol-fueled rages, my father would say that we - the three girls - didn't deserve his last name because we weren't "smart enough." He would say that it was a waste to have so many "dumb" girls. He could never remember what he'd said once the alcohol wore off, but even now, 30+ years later, I can still remember every single word.

My dad would argue that his words, however mean, had a motivating effect, because every one of us "dumb" girls have gone on to earn multiple masters' degrees and even doctorates. However, aspiring to something and running away from something else are two different things altogether. When I went to school, failing was not an option, because I knew that somewhere within my father, he expected me to and would be standing by to say "I told you so."

So to hear this man, whom I have vowed to spend the rest of my life with, pull out the "smart" card is like sticking a knife in a barely healed wound. I truly wonder what has earned me this "dumb" label with him. I am an attorney and a productive member of several professional associations, where I am often asked to organize events and chair continuing legal education programs. I have authored chapters in a legal treatise. I have published articles in parenting magazines. I am an avid reader and am always trying to find ways to better myself. When asked to describe me, not one person who knows me would utter the word "dumb." So what exactly is it that I am not getting? Could what they say be true that those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them?

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-19T21:22:00.000-04:00

I worked from my firm's downtown Manhattan office today JUST so I could go lend some support to the Movement. Unfortunately, I picked a rainy, miserable day, so the Movement was a sodden mess. Even so, the protesters were out and their spirits would not be dampened.

I don't know where you stand on the issue, but I can tell you that what is being reported by Fox News and the like is mostly lies. The park is not "smelly" or "dirty." There was no "mob" scene there. And the people are not littering all over or belligerent in any way. In fact, the Occupy Wall Street "Good Neighbor Policy" is posted all over the park, as a constant reminder to protestors to clean up after themselves and treat everyone with respect.

This country was built for the people, by the people. Yet, the few "haves" have consistently continued to amass and multiply their fortunes off the skin of the "have-nots'" backs. Enough. This is our generation's Civil Rights Movement. Power to the people!

Why Me?

2011-10-17T15:54:00.000-04:00

Ever since Bren was born, I have always had him on my computer desktop. Some picture of him is always the background. That way, I feel like he is with me, even when I'm at work.

The other day, I was working from home and left my laptop on while I went to cook dinner. A few minutes later, Bren comes running into the kitchen and said, "Mommy, your computer is on!" I continued to stir the pot of rice I was cooking, "yes, I know. I left it on."

"But Mommy, I'm on it!"

I glanced over at him again. I wasn't quite sure what the excitement was about.

"Yeessssssssss ...."

"No, seriously, Mommy. A picture of me is on your computer."

Finally, I stopped stirring and faced him. "Yes, you are on my computer. You are always on my computer. It's my way of keeping you close when I'm working."

He paused a little bit and then said, "But ... why me?"

After I finished explaining to my child that I love him so much that I never tire of seeing him, he went away, shaking his head at my silliness. And I had to shake my head at the fact that he had to ask why him. Funny, how the people we would give our lives for never realize how much we love them.

Sleeping with Pistachios

2011-10-06T15:10:00.003-04:00

Despite my daddy issues, I have always found myself gravitating toward men with a sense of humor similar to my dad’s. My dad has a rapier wit and a quick comeback to anything anyone lobs at him. Big Bren is the exact same way. And I am finding that my pen-pal does, too.

The other day, we were engaging in our usual incessant digital chatter. Someone was making my life miserable and I needed someone to commiserate with me. After I detailed everything this woman was doing that I found objectionable, he responded: “She’s sleeping with pistachios.”

I cocked my head to the side and tried to figure that one out. Was he even speaking to me? Maybe he got his e-mails mixed up and this was addressed to someone else. Who would sleep with pistachios? And if this was someone else he knew, who the hell would call themselves -- or tolerate anyone else calling them -- “Pistachios”?

A split second later, he sent another message: “She’s fucking nuts.”

Ah, I get it. Way to commiserate. J

Prayering at Sunset

2011-10-02T22:20:00.001-04:00

When Hurricane Irene battered the East Coast not too long ago, we -- like most people -- were left without power for a few days. The day the power went, I went into full-blown panic mode thinking about having to bathe, feed and entertain Brendan without electricity. I didn't worry much about myself. Having grown up partly in Honduras, I know what it's like to live without the luxury of running water and electricity, but I thought it would be a real hardship for Brendan. Thankfully, Brendan saw it as an adventure and easily found ways to pass the time without television, electronic games or DVDs.

On most evenings, Big Bren was out trying to score a generator. The big stores, like Home Depot and Lowes had long since sold out, but he was methodically going to every hardware store and tractor supply place in the area trying to find one that somehow was miraculously still available. Most of it, I'm sure, was him trying to "provide" for us; but I'm also sure that at least some of it was him finding a way not to be home with a restless 7 year old and no power.

On the evenings that Big Bren was gone, Brendan and I got into the habit of sitting on the deck to watch the sun go down. It was so absolutely peaceful and beautiful, that it was only fitting that it became our meditation and prayer time. We would sit quietly, shoulder to shoulder, for a few minutes and watch the sun make its way down. Then, just as the sun was about to set, we would say our prayers. In the midst of all the craziness and hardship, those few minutes every day became Bren and my favorite time together.

And, it's funny, because not once during those six days did Bren or I ever pray for the power to come back.

Now, with Hurricane Irene but a distant memory, Brendan and I still make time for, as he calls it "prayering" at sunset. I rarely get home from work before sunset during the week, but every Sunday now, we sit on the deck, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the sun go down. And, today, just as the sun went down, I whispered a "thank you" to God -- for my home, for the sunset, for my amazing little boy.

The Year of Living Fearlessly (Recovering My Lost Childhood)

2011-09-30T11:16:00.000-04:00

My 41st birthday is coming up and although I've done a lot in my life, I often feel like I haven't done enough. And, yes, ya'll know about my burning desire to write and to get my book published, yada yada yada. But, I've never spoken of the more mundane things that I wish to achieve. Like learning how to ride a bicycle. Or swim. Or how to play an instrument. There are so many things that I simply never learned how to do. Sometimes, I look at Bren and I am in awe of him. He throws himself into everything so wholeheartedly. God bless him. I hope he continues to be that way.

While I exemplify some good things (getting an education, focus, drive), I know that I am also a model of fear for him. I am fearful of animals. I am fearful of risk. I dread change. I scream my lungs out on amusement park rides. (Sigh.)

So, for the next year, I commit to living fearlessly. I am promising myself that by October 2012 (or when the world ends, according to some), I will have -- at a minimum -- learned how to ride a bike, swim and play an instrument. I also want to learn how to ride a motorcycle, take at least one flying lesson and skydive. I will, of course, regale you all with my adventures. I'm sure you can't wait to hear all about them .... :-)

How to Turn Any Failure Into Success

2011-09-28T12:09:00.001-04:00

I was transferring my list of contacts from one e-mail account to another when I saw something that made my stomach clench: the list of agents to whom I had sent a query regarding my book "The Five Lives of Mimi." It was not an extensive list -- about 10 people, but it was enough to sour my day and make me feel like a failure.

I quickly logged off the account and tried to occupy myself with something else. But my mind kept going back to that list. And the more I thought about it, the crappier I felt.

Fast forward a few hours and I come across this article: How to Turn Any Failure into Success by Martha Beck. Ms. Beck basically says that in order to appreciate success, one must first wallow through failure. She talks about how -- sometimes -- the best reponse to a perceived failure is not "oh no!" but to say "oh well ..." and keep moving. She provides an example from her own life about how her love of drawing turned to despair and loathing after an art teacher ordered her to draw only with a drafting pen in his class. Having never been exposed to the instrument before, she simply could not get it to work the way she wanted it to. Of course, after thousands of tries, she learns to draw with the pen and creates an award-winning work of art.

I know I am missing something in my quest to get Mimi published. I am obviously not using the right words to pique the agents' interest or not approaching the right people. (Or, as my friend Katia and I sometimes discuss, it may simply be a matter of waiting for divine timing.) Whatever it is, that "failure" is sticking in my craw. I hate it. But until I get over it and unless I keep sending those letters not knowing whether I will get the courtesy of a response, I will never know the sweet taste of success.

Til Death Do Us Part

2011-09-26T12:02:00.006-04:00

Chris Rock has a funny bit in a comedy routine where he talks about being married. He says – and I’m paraphrasing – that there comes a time in every marriage when the wife is going to wish the husband dead. He says that he has caught his wife looking at him plenty of times where he can almost see the thought bubble above her head “I wish he would just drop dead right now. I won’t have to deal with a divorce or a custody battle. Just drop dead! Drop dead, drop dead, drop dead!”

I have been there. In a comedy routine, it is funny; in real life, it is not.

Two days ago, I picked up a pen, found an old journal and started writing again. Before that day, I hadn’t journaled in over four years. Giving up journaling was traumatic for me. It was as if someone had pressed the “mute” button on my brain. I no longer had an outlet where I could vent my feelings, my disappointments, my anger, safely. But I had to stop, because my privacy was breached and when I wrote, I no longer knew whether I was writing what I actually felt or if I was writing for an audience.

As a child, I was not encouraged to express myself. Children were seen and not heard. So I wrote. I would internalize everything and when it got to be too heavy a burden, I would lay it down on paper. That is how I dealt.

Then I met Big Bren. Big Bren and I were like oil and vinegar. If he said “up,” I said “down.” If he said “black,” I said “white.” We clashed constantly. But instead of walking away from him and finding someone with whom I was more compatible, I continued to subject myself to him. And so, I wrote. I wrote all the things I could not tell him. When I felt my anger spiraling out of control, I wrote some more. But still I stayed. And the more I tolerated, the more he piled on. There was no pleasing him. He became controlling. One day, he smashed my computer screen because he reviewed my browsing history and didn’t like some of the websites I had visited. He shredded a $300 coat I bought him because we got into an argument. He poked fun of me for meditating. One time, we went on vacation and on the flight back, I fell asleep and leaned onto his shoulder; he elbowed me awake. I wrote this all down. (I'm sure that if he was a writer, he'd be writing about me as well. He ticked off my mother one day when she was making him coffee at her house. She asked him how he wanted it. His reply: "Like my woman -- dark and bitter." He would probably also tell of the time soon after we started dating when he told me me was going on vacation and I called my friend Nycol up and we followed him. Or when I threw a glass at him because I heard him concluding a telephone conversation with "I love you, too" and thought he was speaking to another woman; he was -- his mother. Or when I attached a GPS tracker to his car.)

Then, one day, he discovered my journals. At first, it was a hidden treasure for him. He could get a sneak peak into my mind without my knowing he had been there. Then, his need to control took over and he began “answering” my journal entries. If I said something nasty about him, there would be a corresponding response. In one I wrote, “I need to get out of this relationship.” He responded, “don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

Every time I got a new hiding place for my journal, he found it. He was completely invested in controlling everything about me, including my thoughts. After we had the baby, it seemed to get worse. Now he had a little person to control me with. When I wrote entries to my son, he ripped them out.

So I stopped writing. And that is when the “I wish him dead” thoughts started. That and the recurring depression, over-eating and corresponding weight gain. I prayed he would die and I would get a chance to meet someone and be happy for once. I prayed he would die before my son became aware of how truly dysfunctional his parents’ relationship was. I prayed he would stop breathing in his sleep and simply die. I didn’t want him to suffer. I didn’t want him to get killed. I just wanted him to die! I didn’t feel like I had the will power or the wherewithal to walk away from him, but well, if he died …

I’ve said before that God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Her to, but She always listens. Shortly after I started praying for that man to die, things began to change in my marriage. It was as if a film had been lifted from my eyes and I was able to really see for a change. I began to notice that when I didn’t speak up for myself (because I was pouring everything into a journal), his behavior escalated. He was exactly like a child seeking attention. I realized that the closer I was to the truth about a matter, the louder he yelled and the more hateful he became. If I challenged him on something trivial, the stakes became higher and higher, with no winners. And underneath all the bravado, he was a frightened little boy who was afraid that I would reject him and leave him all alone.

As all of this became clear to me, I began to change as well. Instead of spewing hatred at him for all the things he didn’t do, didn’t have and couldn’t provide, I began to appreciate all the things he did do and continues to do for our household. Instead of automatically responding with an opposing view to everything he said, I began to think first and answer second.

Those relatively minor things have made all the difference in our putrefying marriage and have given it a new life I didn’t think he was going to live to see. As sure as I sit here, the man that he was is dead and gone. Just as I have laid the old crazy version of me to rest. Which is a good thing, because the woman I am now would not tolerate the ill treatment of yesteryear; and I hope that who he is now would not be attracted to a loony bitch. These days, we most definitely still have our fights; old habits (on both our parts) die hard. But when I see either or both of us engaging in the old behaviors, I can stop the pattern now before the downward spiral. The result is that I feel like I can write again. This blog was the beginning of my renaissance – the permission I needed to give myself to speak freely again. He no longer feels the need to read my journals (or even this blog), but if he does, there is nothing that I haven’t already told him.

Long live my husband.

Update 9/30/11: I was telling Big Bren about this post and how I'd written about all the crazy things we did to each other. He looked at me, smiled wistfully and said, "Yeah, we had a really passionate relationship." Aaaarrrgggghhhhh!

I went to a taping of "The View"

2011-09-22T18:26:00.001-04:00

My friend Nycol was clearly ready for her close-up.

I was "thisclose" to Babs.

It was a really good show (Michael Moore was on). It's always good to get a reminder that there is more to life than the day-to-day.

Michael Moore is looking like his old self again (make of that what you will). :-)

Vacation Pics

2011-09-10T22:38:00.000-04:00

I took Bren to Honduras this Summer purportedly to get in touch with his roots.

We didn't get around to much root touching, but we certainly had fun trying ... :-)

Back to School

2011-09-07T08:10:00.000-04:00

History Repeats ...

2011-09-02T11:01:00.001-04:00

I remember being 25. I had graduated from law school and had passed the Bar exam on my first try. I felt invincible -- like I could do anything.

One day around that time, all my siblings and I were at our parents' house in the Bronx. It was some occasion and we were all there at the same time. The conversation was flowing and I don't remember how we got to regrets and failed hopes, but my father said something to the effect of that if he didn't have to work his whole life to support his family, he would have gone to school and studied philosophy or become a lawyer. The sadness with which he said it silenced the whole room. It was a rare glimpse into his psyche; and it made me feel as if he had sacrificed himself and his dreams for us.

When I couldn't bear the silence any longer, I said "Why don't you go to school now? We are all grown and out of the house. There's nothing stopping you from following your dreams now."

He looked at me like I was a fool. I will always remember his response:  "It is too late for me. I am too old now."  And, as he always does when the conversation gets heavy or uncomfortable, he walked out of the room and didn't come back. My father was 55 at the time.

The other day, Brendan and I were cuddling in bed, as we do every night before his bedtime. He suddenly turned to me and said, "Mommy, you look a little sad and tired. Are you not happy?" I looked at him a little sharply. Who would've thought 7 year olds could be so perceptive?

"I'm happy now," I said, obviously deflecting the question. He looked at me again. "Do you like being a lawyer, Mommy?" A slight pause on my end. "Sometimes," I finally answered. He was quiet for a few minutes, then: "What would you do if you could do any kind of job in the world, Mom?"  No pause this time, "I would write full-time. And I would be involved in the entertainment business somehow, either writing television shows or movies or even acting."

He scrambled to sit up and grabbed my face in his little hands. "So why don't you do it, Mommy?" My immediate response: "Well, baby, I'm too old now."

I am forty years old. A full 15 years younger than my dad was when we had our conversation. As those words left my mouth, I realized that they weren't true. There is always time to do an about-face if you know you are going down the wrong path. There is always time to reassess and get clear. And there is always time to dream and have faith that those dreams will come true.

So, now, a month before my 41st birthday, I hereby re-commit to my dreams.  Not my childhood dreams, but the dreams I have now as a woman. I vow to lead my son by example. How can I tell him that all things are possible for him, but live with my own personal failure? I don't want him to learn that when things don't happen right away, you simply give up. I want him to be a fighter and for that, I am getting up and getting back in the ring.

Everything you should know about kids, but no one bothered to tell you

2011-09-01T13:06:00.000-04:00

In honor of a good friend who just recently had a little one, I am republishing this:

Everything you should know about kids ...

Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper and cry; and they pee and poop.
The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
All young kids are fascinated by poop.
A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
"Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

Mid-Life Crisis (?)

2011-08-08T09:54:00.000-04:00

Am I too young to be going through a mid-life crisis?

When most people think of a mid-life crisis, the picture that usually comes to mind is a pudgy old man with a bad rug, a red sports car and a young girlfriend trying to recapture his youth. Despite the funky manifestations, we know that the reason for the meltdown is the realization that half of one's life is gone and perhaps, one has not done what they thought they were put here to do.

I haven't traded Big Bren in for a younger model and I haven't given up my soccer-mom car, but my mind is constantly churning. I cannot imagine doing what I am doing for the rest of my life (or until I retire), but the doors to other opportunities remain steadfastly closed.

So, I ask, am I going through a mid-life crisis? If so, when does it end???

Delayed Gratification

2011-07-06T21:00:00.001-04:00

That is my mantra these days.

There is so much I want and so much I want to do and I want it all NOW. I have to keep reminding myself that slow and steady wins the race. Whether it's a slice of cake or the new Gucci bag, I have to keep chanting "delayed gratification" to myself. Most times it works; sometimes it doesn't (as I eat the last piece of flan in the fridge ...).

Pen Pal

2011-07-02T10:09:00.001-04:00

Over the past year, I have developed a relationship with a former co-worker that is quite unique and extremely gratifying. We are pen pals. We don't send each other formal letters; instead we send e-mails throughout the day, that we retrieve on our respective cell phones. The e-mails are more personal than texts or twitter updates, but less stuffy than letters. It works for us.

For the life of me, I cannot remember how it started. But now I look forward to the incessant digital chatter throughout the day. We talk about everything: politics, life, children (he has one on the way), books, work, growing up, marriage, food. All in little snippets. He will send me a note that says "your thoughts on Arianna Huffington." Response: "Love the Huffington Post; don't know much about the woman." Reply: "She was once a conservative and married to a Republican. He decided he was gay and they got divorced." Then on to the next topic.

The funny thing is that although he works down the road from me, we rarely see each other. We don't "speak" well to each other; our relationship is best in digital form.

Early on, when I realized how much I enjoyed and looked forward to his communications, I searched my mind for ulterior motives -- on his part or mine -- and, thankfully, found none. It is not an affair -- of the heart, mind or otherwise -- it is a friendship, plain and simple, albeit of the digital kind.

The Absence of Fear

2011-06-26T18:40:00.001-04:00

My son has no fear. None whatsoever.

There is something both amazing and frightening about that. Amazing because, well, imagine the things that we, as adults, could do, if we incorporated the fearlessness of a child. And frightening, because, well, I'm his mother. :)

P.S. He has also learned the more harmless skill of riding a bicycle.

Enough

2011-06-19T12:06:00.000-04:00

I always have weird dreams in the days leading up to Father's Day. I dream I am a child again and my father is yelling at me. Sometimes, he has just died and I don't know how to react: am I supposed to be sad or relieved? When I awaken, I am usually just numb. I know I have daddy issues. I always have. It is difficult growing up with a father who is withholding and unloving. At some point, I internalized the fact that I was unloveable and unworthy. I was never good enough for him; so now I am never good enough for me. He will die someday, probably sooner, rather than later; I will have no closure. I fear that he will take a piece of me with him, leaving the puzzle that is "me" unsolved.

I have tried to sort my daddy issues out. I have tried forgiveness. I have tried releasing him psychically, emotionally and psychologically. None of it worked. So, in my desperation, I confronted him. I told him how I felt unloved by him. How, no matter how much I've tried to please him, it was never enough. How painful it was for me to see him develop and enjoy his relationships with my siblings, while the only thing he bestowed upon me was disdain. I looked him in the eyes as I pleaded with him to explain to me where our relationship had gone so horribly wrong. And ... he got up and walked away from me. Without saying a word. Without denying his lack of love for me. I think that one action at 40 was worse than all the emotional abuse, the distance and the disapproval of the 40 preceding years.

They say those who do not learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them. While my issue with my father is not my mistake, per se, I have repeated this "not enough-ness" throughout my whole life. It has plagued me through relationships, jobs and friendships. When I receive acceptance, love and approval from strangers, I cannot process it. My mind will not receive it, so my not enough-ness continues.

So, on this Father's Day, when I see my son with his father and experience the pure and unadulterated love between the two, I feel happy that he has that. No matter what life may bring him, that is something that no one can ever take away. To that, I raise my glass and say "Happy Father's Day."

Nature Unleashed

2011-06-11T20:49:00.000-04:00

This is what I awakened to yesterday morning.

I need a Mommy

2011-05-31T17:33:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time, mi gente, but I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack. :-)

Don't kids have it great? They have parents to wake them up, remind them to brush their teeth, get them breakfast, help them get dressed, etc., etc. As I was poking and prodding Brendan along this morning (I swear, he's worse than cattle in the a.m.), it suddenly occurred to me that I could seriously use a "Mommy." Not a mother -- I have one of those. A mommy. Someone to poke and prod me through life.

I mean, if I had a mommy, I wouldn't spend endless hours on the internet. I'd be writing my next book or plugging away at the billable hours. My mommy would guilt me into productivity and out of procrastination. My mommy would make me keep sending query letters to agents, even when I don't feel like it (and, Lordy Lord, I don't feel like it). I wouldn't be able to insist on going to bed at midnight every day, knowing full well how exhausted I'll be. No, siree, my mommy wouldn't allow that.

It's funny how, as grown-ups, we know what we should be doing, but fail to do it anyway.

Signs

2010-09-08T08:48:00.003-04:00

Big Bren and I have been going through a personal trial these past few weeks. As a sort of last resort for me, I decided to PUSH (Pray Until Something Happens). For weeks, I have gotten down on my knees every day and prayed -- not necessarily for a favorable resolution -- but for God's will to be done and for peace to accept whatever that may be.

In the natural, I didn't see anything happening. However, for the past few weeks -- almost since this matter cropped up to aggravate us -- a plant started growing outside our door. It began like a weed and although we have been outside many times pulling weeds, we were reluctant to pluck it, so we let it grow. And grow it did; by last night, it was almost as tall as Brendan. Still, we left it alone.

This morning, Big Bren and I got up to get Brendan ready for his first day of school. As we walked out to put him on the bus, we saw that our botanical visitor had revealed itself:

It is a sunflower. And not just any sunflower -- a giant, towering sunflower. A sunflower that we did not plant. A giant sunflower that bloomed in September, when all other flowers have called it a day. A flower whose symbolism is that of positivity and light.

I don't know if God answers prayers the way we want them to be answered, but no one can say that She doesn't listen.

Brendan playing dress-up

2010-07-02T20:11:00.001-04:00

He just cracks me up. :-)

And, no, the glasses aren't real.

Negative Motivation

2010-07-02T15:03:00.002-04:00

My siblings and I have been struggling with the fact that our children are classic underachievers -- smart kids who refuse to take a single extra step for their own betterment. Not a single valecdictorian, honor student or even hard worker in the bunch. They sit back and wait to be clothed, fed and coddled.

Last I spoke with my oldest sister, she said something that made me think. She said that despite our parents' obvious lack of parenting skills, we all finished school and graduated with good grades. And we are all hardworkers; each of us has been working since the age of 15. So, how did they do it?

We got nothing for "free." We had chores that surpassed those of grown women (cleaning the house, cooking, washing, ironing, etc.). And we got clothes once a year; if your clothes got holey or worn out before then, it was too bad. Our parents never directed a kind word to any of us. No "I'm proud of you," or "you did good." No "undeserved" kisses or spontaneous hugs. But if we messed up in anything, we would hear for months how "useless" we were and how we would amount to nothing.

For whatever reason, those vitriolic words motivated us to prove our parents wrong. So, are we "too good" to our children? Is our unconditional love and support damaging them, instead of helping them? Who is to say?

It's really sad when only negativity can motivate you. I have lost 17 pounds so far; but what gets my butt in the gym is not seeing my size 10 pants practically falling off me or being able to wear clothes that have been sitting in my closet for three years. No, it's not that at all; rather, it's seeing the rolls of fat still on my back and the spare tire that refuses to budge.

My son's go-to phrases when he doesn't want to do something is "I don't know how to do it" (most often than not said before he even tries) and "this is boring." So I ask myself: do I "motivate" my beautiful son by berating him for failing/refusing to do something that I know will benefit him (like his homework or practicing his sports) or do I keep being loving and supportive despite any purported lack of achievement (because, really, how much can you really achieve at six years old)? That is a doozy of a question.

Payoff!

2010-06-09T10:57:00.001-04:00

By golly, I got it! (Okay, fine, I'm "getting" it.)

I've lost 13 pounds on Weight Watchers. It hasn't gotten much easier, but now that I am seeing the payoff to the sacrifice, I'm more committed to the process.

See ya'll at the finish line. :-)

What do you really want?

2010-06-08T11:03:00.000-04:00

I saw this on the Huffington Post today:

It really got me thinking about my life and what I want. So I sat still and wrote down five things that I "really" want.

I want to be employed doing what I love and make a great living doing so.
I want to see Brendan grow up. And that means not just being physically alive when he is a grown up, but enjoying him as he grows up. I want us to see different parts of the world together and spend real time with each other, not an hour in the evening or a few hours on the weekend.
I want to live somewhere warm year-round.
I want to weigh 125 pounds again; and I want to do it while feeling healthy and energetic (not to mention, looking good).
I want to be joyful. Not "happy"; joyful. The state where I can enjoy the journey without always checking to see if I've reached some destination.

Writing down this list really made me re-focus. Maybe you should try it.

Anal Glaucoma

2010-05-23T11:32:00.000-04:00

I was having lunch at a local restaurant the other day when I overheard the following conversation:

Guy #1: I'm trying to get some fishing in, but the weather has been sort of crappy.
Guy #2: Yeah, I know. It's supposed to rain on and off for the next few days. The first good day predicted will be Monday.
Guy 1: Really? Then, I'll go to work for the rest of the week and call in with anal glaucoma on Monday.
Guy 2: Say what?
Guy 1: You've never heard of anal glaucoma? That means I don't see my ass going in to work on Monday.

As Cindy Adams would say, only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

Sunshine & Rainbows

2010-05-11T11:15:00.001-04:00

Every time I speak with my oldest sister these days, she gets on my back about my "relentlessly negative" posts of the past few months. So I had every intention today of writing something happy; you know, full of sunshine and rainbows.

Then, I decided not to.

You see, when I first started this blog, I made it clear that I would be writing my truth, no one else's. And my truth is that sometimes my life is full of sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes, it's not. Sometimes, I am in the mood for introspection. Sometimes, I am in the mood for so-called "negativity." Sometimes, it's about celebrity gossip.

As a child, I used to watch PBS's Electric Company. There was a little Hispanic girl who was always painting. When you looked over her shoulder to see what she was painting, it was always polka dots. One day, one of the other characters asked her why she painted polka dots all the time. And for the first time, she turned to face the audience and said, "Yo pinto lo que veo." (I paint what I see.) As she said that, the viewer noticed that she had spots on her glasses, so all she could see were those dots.

These days, that child is me. I paint polka dots because that is what I see. I make no excuses. I have to say, though, that I haven't gotten any other complaints about my "negativity." So, Mami-Sis, what is it that you are seeing? Could you be wearing tainted glasses, too?

Love

2010-05-10T15:28:00.000-04:00

I got this e-mail from my little brother, Roy, today and it almost made me cry. Sometimes, it helps to know that someone, somewhere, is thinking of you and loves you.

Metamorphosis Complete

2010-05-04T08:35:00.000-04:00

I have completed my metamorphosis into Soccer Mom.

Relapse and Deprivation :-(

2010-05-03T20:29:00.001-04:00

Okay, I have been on Weight Watchers for 3 weeks now. That means 3 weeks of no ice cream, no fried food, very little rice, no soda, no juice, no pizza, and tiny, tiny -- did I say "tiny"? -- portions. And I lost a measly 8.9 pounds.

I've been working out 3 or 4 times a week. AND I LOST A MEASLY 8.9 POUNDS!

With each passing week, it feels harder, not easier to stick with the plan. I know that I am doing it the proper way -- the internet is replete with reports that optimal weight loss for long term maintenance is 1 to 2 pounds a week. Lose any more than that, and your body thinks you're starving and slows your metabolism down to a crawl. Weight Watchers does it the right way. So why am I so miserable?

Progress is glacial, that's why. I am the kind of person who needs immediate gratification (hence, my current predicament). Which is why this past weekend, I forgot about Weight Watchers for a minute and ate an entire fried fish. And fried plantains. And drank soda. And ate a whole hero sandwich -- with mayo! Then I had some ice cream. And movie theatre popcorn WITH butter.

Hey, I figured that if it took me 3 weeks to lose a piddly 8.9 pounds, it would take a while for the scale to creep up. WRONG! The next day, I hopped on the scale and was shocked to see that I had gained 2 pounds overnight. So now, I've lost only 6.9 friggin' pounds. Where is the justice in that???

Oh well, now that I've had my relapse, it's time to go back to the deprivation (sigh).

The Sky is Falling!

2010-04-23T14:11:00.002-04:00

I am tired of the proliferation of articles/programs/books about Professional Black Women Not Being Able to Find a Man! Or as my other professional Black women friends and I call it: The Sky is Falling!

The coverage has ranged from philosophical (there are not enough Black men to go around because all of them are either flocking to white women or they’re in jail) to ridiculous (Black women need to harness their “anger” before they can be good partners).

Pure and simple, professional Black women are not getting married because they CHOOSE not to get married. Seriously, if a woman – any woman – wants to get married (or “get a man” as ABC puts it), she simply has to settle for someone. There are enough saggy-pantsed man-boys on the street corners for every Black woman IF she wanted one. Newsflash: She doesn’t want one. There are plenty of Hector Penates and Jon Gosselins to be had. She doesn’t want those, either. And if she wanted to be someone’s baby momma, well, P. Diddy and Lil Wayne always have room in their harems.

The fact is, instead of beating up on Black women for making the valid choice of not getting married, they should be applauded for taking control of their lives. Every professional Black woman I know leads a full life. They take multiple vacations every year, own their own homes and cars; and when they need male “companionship,” they get it. Black women are not “on the shelf,” they are living their lives on their terms. Why is there suddenly something wrong with that?

And why aren’t White people being studied? Someone please tell me why old White men keep marrying much younger women, only to get cuckolded (I’m looking at you, Larry King and Hugh Heffner)? Can a study be done on how a White wife doesn’t know her husband is cheating until the 13^th mistress or hooker pops up out of the woodwork (yes, that would be you, Elin, Sandra and Mrs. Spitzer)?

From what I see, professional Black women may be making a good choice – you don't see professional Black women being Tiger Woodsed or Jesse Jamesed, do you?

Personal Accountability

2010-04-18T23:10:00.001-04:00

I went shopping for jeans the other day. The only size that fit was a 10. I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.

Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from. No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight. But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans. In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on. I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.

My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago. I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight. I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight. This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties. Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't. In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.

The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan. I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.

Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds. So what happened?

For the past three years, I've made every excuse: everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.

The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin. I stopped walking. I stopped dancing. I stopped going to the gym. I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty. And I eat when I am tired. I eat when I am depressed. I eat when I am bored. I eat when I need to fill in the time. I eat when I am stressed. I eat when I am relaxed. I eat, I eat, I eat.

After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number: 158 lbs.

And that is when it hit me. That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans. At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds. And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap. Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans. I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.

Talk about a wake-up call.

Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. I have often called out others for their delusions. Well, today is my day for personal accountability.

Who are they fooling?

2010-04-01T13:29:00.000-04:00

From AOL:

If you're trying to sell me a bathing suit that supposedly hides figure "flaws," please don't insult my intelligence by having a model who probably weighs 95 pounds soaking wet model the darned thing. Give me a real woman, so I can see what the suit actually does. Geez.

Respite

2010-03-31T22:06:00.000-04:00

I took a much needed vacay to recharge my batteries. Now I'm fully charged and ready to go. Try to keep up. :-)

Truer words have never been spoken

2010-03-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

I got this in an e-mail today from my friend Laverne:

"Never allow someone to be your Priority, while allowing yourself to be their Option."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Keeping Score

2010-03-09T08:46:00.002-05:00

I know few genuinely nice people. You know, the kind of people who will go out of their way to do something for you and expect nothing in return. My oldest sister, E., is one such person. Her twin, A., is another. My cou-sis, T., stands by me, even when I don't feel like I deserve it. My mother-in-law takes the cake in generosity -- she has been there for me at times when my own parents couldn't be bothered.

But that's it. Four people out of the hundreds that I know. I used to be such a person. Then, last year, it was as if I was jarred awake.

Every Christmas, my mother makes a list of people. "This person," she'll say, "was nice to me all year. I have to get her a gift." Then she'll peer at another name, "I've bought this person a gift three years in a row and he has never once said 'here's a flower for you or $20 to buy yourself something.' This year, I'm not getting him anything."

The way my mother did things frustrated me. I would tell her, "Mother, you don't give someone a gift because you expect one back. If you like that person or appreciate them, give them a gift, even if 20 years go by and they don't give you anything back." But she would just shake her head and keep doing her list, as if I had not interrupted.

I began last year the way I always do -- I bankrupted myself to make sure that I got each and every person on my list something that I knew they would love. The same mentality extended through the beginning of the year: helping my sister out financially; driving an hour to pick up my mom to take her to the mall, then driving an hour to get to the mall, then driving an hour back to drop her off at home, before driving the final hour back to my own house; picking up my nieces and nephews from the Bronx on the weekends so they could have "a change of scenery"; and sharing any monetary bonuses I received from work with Big Bren.

Then, a few things happened that hurt me so deeply that I couldn't pretend they didn't bother me.

First, on Brendan's birthday last year, I made the rounds and picked up all my nieces and nephews so they could spend Bren's birthday weekend at the house. I try to make weekends at my house fun: we go out to eat; go to the movies; for Halloween, we go to the haunted houses; in the fall, we go apple and pumpkin picking; in the summer, we do a pool-side barbeque. That day, before I picked them up, I went to the ATM, so that I'd have enough cash on hand for our activities. I ordered pizzas and left them -- and my wallet -- in the car, while I went inside to get the pizzas.

When I returned to the car and opened my wallet to put the change from the pizza back, I noticed that the rest of my money was gone. I questioned them separately, but each one denied taking the money or knowledge of who took it. That incident put a damper on the weekend for me. And that was the last time that I picked them up or invited them to my house. My niece calls me now and then just to chat, but the rest of them don't bother to pick up the phone to ask how I'm doing or to speak to Brendan. It shows me that the affection only went one way.

The next incident was when I planned a birthday party for my father and he refused to attend. His response was that not even if Jesus Christ told him to go to my house would he go. As with everything else, I had gone out of my way to please my dad; buying him first-class airplane tickets to Honduras; paying his way on a cruise the family took; driving an hour to his auto repair shop to give him the business when it would be cheaper and more convenient to do it around my way.

Until that birthday incident, I had no idea that my father disliked me so much. It was a real eye-opener. And a depressing one at that.

Then, over the summer, I invited my sister on numerous occasions to spend some time with me. She only accepted when it was convenient for her. I had to drive to meet her in the Bronx and do the things that she wanted to do. Whenever I suggested something different, she would decline the invitation.

At work, I would run myself ragged putting on training for the claims people, answering e-mails at all hours of the night and on the weekends, only to have my boss be partial to those who were doing nothing for the betterment of the team.

So, one day, I sat down and looked at all the stuff I was doing for people and all the things I was paying for and realized that perhaps my mother was right: you can do as much as you want for someone, and you can love and appreciate someone, but that won't change the way they feel about you.

So I stopped doing and being all things to all people. It gets tough sometimes, because I am a doer. But I stop myself. Sometimes, someone will say something about how I've made myself scarce, and my standard response has gotten to be, "you know where I live; you have my telephone number. My door is always open." Funny how no one has gotten off his/her butt to take me up on the offer. People will take whatever you give them, so I've learned the hard way to hold on to some things a little more tightly.

Are you kidding me?

2010-03-04T15:06:00.003-05:00

"Eliot Spitzer: Why I liked ho's." No, this headline is not from Bossip.com; it's from the New York Post. There are so many things wrong with this, that I don't know where to begin.

First, isn't the Post supposed to be a reputable newspaper? So, could someone explain to me why they are resorting to vulgar urban slang to make a point? And in a headline, no less.

Second, what is this alleged "ho" in possession of? Correct me if I'm wrong, but a plural of something has no apostrophe. I guess they feel there is no need to check the grammar on their vulgar urban slang.

Don't get me wrong, my ire is not directed at the Post because I support Spitzer and his hooker habit. I think he got everything he deserved. In fact, he didn't get enough. Here he was, the top politician in the State and fresh off the job of being the top law enforcer in the State, and he was patronizing prostitutes. Why isn't he in jail? Worse yet, why is his idiot wife staying with him? Especially after it became common knowledge that he prefered to savor his whores au natural?

The point is that there is a place for irreverence and slang; the supposedly serious newspaper is not it. I guess I'll be sticking to the Times from here on in.

Who Would've Thunk It?

2010-02-26T16:01:00.001-05:00

As I've written, Brendan had his birthday last week. Because we live so far away from the rest of the family, when we invite people over, we get a trickle of family members for almost a week. People just show up when it's most convenient for them; and our door is always open.

One of the people who showed up to celebrate my sonny-boy's life thus far was his aunt, my sister-in-law. My sister-in-law, E., is fiercely protective of "her" family -- be it her parents, her brother, Big Bren's children and even my Brendan. For some reason, though, she seems to think that I am someone to protect them from. No matter how nice I am and have been, she's always asking questions about me. How do I treat the kids? Do I treat them well? Am I too strict? Am I nice to her parents when they come to visit?

Last week was no exception. She took her grandson to Brendan's birthday party and then asked whether she could take my step-daughter with her to the store. I thought nothing of it; that's her niece, so I figured she wanted to spend some alone time with her since she rarely sees her.

When she got back with my stepdaughter, N., a few hours later, she was in an exceptionally good mood. She said that she'd had a frank discussion with N. about me and N. had only good things to say. She told her how I always bought her nice things, because I said that women should always dress nicely and take care of their appearance. How I had bought N. her first Coach bag and explained that a nice bag always makes a young lady's outfit. As she was telling me this, I inwardly rolled my eyes, figuring that she would think I was trying buy the child's affection. We all know how materialistic teenagers can be. But she went on. She said that N. also told her how I tried to teach her how to cook and how I made all types of cakes and pies from scratch. And how I did everything I did with care and love, making home-cooked meals for the family on the weekends and even taking time to arrange my salads just right, so that everything looked pretty before we ate dinner.

I didn't know what to say. I just stood there. To be honest, I never realized that N. noticed the things I did. This is the child who called me "her" and "she" for the first 10 years of my 11-year relationship with her father. Her mother still refers to me as "the Slut" even though Big Bren and I have been married for 7 years.

I have a friend who always talks about her stepmother and how she (the stepmother) had a positive influence on her life. I always told Big Bren how sad it made me feel that I did not have that sort of relationship with his children. Imagine my surprise to find out that -- in fact -- I actually do. :-)

Trust

2010-02-17T20:30:00.001-05:00

"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." Mark 10:15

I went to Catholic school as a child, and this was a Bible passage that was often quoted and taught by the nuns in Religion class. This passage has been used to make many arguments; among them that people should be baptized as children in order to "guarantee" their entry into the "kingdom of God"; that children should be revered, because Jesus loved them so; and that children should be allowed to preserve their innocence as long as possible in order to remain in that "God-like" state.

Truth be told, I have never understood this quotation. I'm not a lover of children (other than my own); they are loud and annoying. Their "innocence" often makes them rude and tactless. Yet, this oft-written about passage in the New Testament spoke to me today for some reason.

Brendan's sixth birthday is tomorrow. In anticipation of it, he has very specific demands: he wants to bring cupcakes to school for snack time; instead of cake toppers, he wants a small toy to decorate each cupcake, as a "gift" to each of his classmates; he wants his birthday celebration to take place in the morning, before recess, not in the afternoon, as I have done it for the past few years; for his birthday party on Saturday, he wants it to be at Chuck E. Cheese's, but he wants to have a dinosaur or Power Ranger motiff, not the Chuck E. Cheese mouse; and he wants a pinata.

He related all of this calmly. He said it once and has not repeated it again (except to remind me to buy the little dinosaurs to put on the cupcakes). He had absolute trust that I would not only hear his request, but that I would grant it.

Today, at lunch time, I went out and bought all his stuff. I zipped to the bakery and got the cupcakes. I went to Party City and bought dinosaur stuff, including the toys to decorate the cupcakes.

As I put all the stuff away, it came to me that it had never occurred to me to say "no, I won't do this for you" or "you don't deserve this." Of course, his request had to be proper. If he had asked me for a boa constrictor, I would have absolutely said no. And it had to be timely; if he'd asked for a party "just because," that likely would have garned another no (Mama don't have it like that).

As I pondered the matter, this Bible passage flitted across my mind. After many years of not understanding, it suddenly dawned on me that it simply means that we should trust God. We say our prayers, declare our wants and we should trust God enough to know that (1) S/He has heard us and (2) our requests will be granted at the right time.

Broken Wings

2010-02-08T12:14:00.001-05:00

I finished my book. Yup. Completely finished. After two years of sitting on the idea. After a two-year long writing block, the plot finally came to me and it gushed out on paper over a span of 6 weeks. It felt like labor; like giving birth to something beautiful, something beyond me.

I thought I was done. But, like giving birth, it was just the beginning. When you're done giving birth, you think you've completed the hard work. "Wow, that's a relief," you think. No more carrying this extra weight around. No more swollen ankles and feet. No more heartburn and nausea. Chile, I'm done. But, of course, you are not. Because now begins the work of tending to your bundle of joy. And as any new mother will tell you, there is nothing joyful about a bundle that cries and poops 24 hours a day. Sure, you adore that child, but when you're sleep deprived and losing your sense of hearing from the screeching, you think, "I didn't know it would be so hard."

And so, here I am -- weeks after I completed my book -- and I haven't found a home for it. The inquiries, the query letters, the "help a sista out" e-mails to all my friends are wearing down my optimism. I can see the beauty in my book -- just like you feel that overwhelming love for your sleeping child -- but now I don't know where to go or what to do to get to the next step. I know about John Grisham and his fifty rejections; and how JK Rowling's "Harry Potter" got turned down more times than she could recall. I don't want that. I don't want to be the woman talking about "it took me 75 tries before I sold my book." I want to be the exception to the rule. I want to be the heifer you love to hate who's like, "girl, please, I sent my book out and it got snatched up immediately." :-)

I was speaking to one of the defense attorneys that my company employs a few days ago. He's a frustrated rocker. He is in a rock band and they play at attorney parties. The thing is that he is really good; I would even say he's excellent. But he cannot expand his view beyond the limits of what he currently has. When I told him about my book, he offered to get me in touch with an attorney friend of his who has contacts in the Publishing industry. As he imparted this wonderful bit of news, however, he warns me not to get my hopes up. In fact, he tells me a story about how, 20 years ago, he wrote a song and played it in a singing contest. A well-known actor/singer happened to be in the audience and asked him for permission to sing his song at an entertainment industry event. He granted the permission, but -- for whatever reason -- the actor/singer never sang the song and the attorney's dreams crashed and burned. The last thing he told me was, "there are no happy endings, so better not get your hopes up."

I got what he was telling me, but I felt compelled to ask, "did you ever try again?" "Did you join other contests?" "Did you approach other people?" The answers were "no," "no" and "no."

It occurs to me that there are so many people out there with broken wings. They dreamed a dream many years ago, nothing happened, so they are afraid to dream anymore.

The thing is that there ARE happy endings. John Grisham DID get published. JK Rowling was able to sell "Harry Potter." Even Jennifer Lopez is no longer Jenny from the Block; she is now Jenny from Beverly Hills and Star Island and Long Island.

I don't want to have a broken wing anymore. And my crying, pooping baby? He is going to be six in 10 days and is the calmest child I have yet to lay eyes on. So, no matter how bad things seem at the outset, nothing lasts forever.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

2009-12-25T23:49:00.001-05:00

HOPE YOU HAD A SAFE AND HAPPY ONE.

Sisyphus

2009-12-06T12:33:00.003-05:00

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned to an eternity of rolling a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll back down again as soon it reached the cusp. There are times when my life feels positively Sisyphean; when I feel like I have been condemned to an eternity of early risings, endless meal making, mountains of laundry and ceaseless dirty dishes. As soon as I finish one task, it is time to start on another. And when that task is done, it is time to get up and do it all again.

The sun rose this morning and -- like an alarm clock -- Brendan was on my side of the bed, chattering away. As I dragged myself out of bed and saw Big Bren's dirty socks and clothes on his side of the bed, I actually muttered, "Please, God, tell me this is not all there is to life." Needless to say, I am cranky today.

It is but 12:30 p.m., and I have already: taken Brendan outside to play in the snow, made pancakes for breakfast, washed a sink full of dishes, sorted the laundry and washed two loads. But, as I was finishing up with the cleaning after breakfast, Big Bren bounded into the kitchen -- hands full of dirty dishes that he thoughtfully brought downstairs from our family room, where he had been collecting them for a few days -- and asked if we were doing anything "fun" today. If looks could kill, I'd be dragging his body from my kitchen right now. "Geez, you complain a lot," he said, as he backed away from my killer look.

Yeah, I complain a lot. I really have nothing to complain about. I got up yesterday, took Brendan to karate, went grocery shopping, put the groceries away, cooked a meal that Big Bren requested (fried chicken with rice and peas and cornbread), cleaned up after the cooking (it is too much to ask anyone else in this house to wash a dish), gave Brendan a bath and got him dressed, put away the laundry that I washed and folded several days ago (it is also too much to ask anyone else in this house to put away clean laundry, too), collected dirty clothes from the floor in various rooms in the house, seasoned meat for cooking the next day, read a book with Brendan, purchased a part for my father's generator from the internet, made another meal for Brendan to eat and put him to bed. All this, while Big Bren lay in the bed in the guest room and watched television or slept. Then just as I got ready to relax a little, Big Bren threw himself down on the bed next to me and said, "can you scratch my head, then give me a massage?" If looks could kill, I would've had to drag his body from my bed yesterday.

I look down at my feet and they look like claws -- that's how long it's been since I got a pedicure. I feel like I get no breathing room, no time to do anything for me. It is all about everyone else. I feel like I've done something wrong; set the wrong precedent along the way. And as I do more and more and get back less and less, I get increasingly more disgruntled.

As I am writing this, Big Bren inquires what time lunch will be ready. If looks could kill, I'd be scraping his carcass off my computer right now....

Saving Worms

2009-12-03T09:00:00.001-05:00

Brendan's school bus has an erratic schedule. It is supposed to arrive at 8:01 a.m., but it gets to our house anywhere from 8:02 to 8:12, depending on who is driving it. So, I always let Bren play outside in the morning, while I cower away from the cold by a window inside.

This morning, I saw him bending over in the driveway, standing up and walking over to the grass; bending over, standing up and walking. He kept doing that over and over again. Finally, I put on my hat and ventured outside.

"What're you doing?" I asked in my best "Mommy" voice. You know, the voice designed not to scare him out of doing whatever it was that he was doing, that he was not supposed to be doing.

He looked up startled, then turned to face me. My stomach heaved -- in one hand was a dangling, writhing worm. "I'm saving the worms," he said, surprised that I would even need to ask.

"From what?"

"My brother. D hates worms and insects. Every time he sees them, he squishes them. I don't want these worms to die, so I'm putting them back on the grass so they can go home."

It rained heavily last night and the driveway was littered with wriggling worms of all sizes. There was no way he was going to save all those worms, but my heart warmed thinking that he was the kind of kid who would try. When the bus finally came, he looked at the remaining worms and gave a little shrug. As he was getting on the bus, he said to me, "Mommy, be careful when you drive out. Please don't run over any worms." And with a wave of his little hand, he was gone.

I remember when he was about a year old; he was a very calm, happy child. One of my aunts who had observed him on numerous occasions came over to me and said, "tell me your secret; what do you do that your child seems so happy all the time?" I was taken aback by the question, so I told her the truth: "I've done nothing; he came to me that way."

Bren isn't a perfect child, but he is a caring, loving, and genuinely happy, person. What more can a mother ask for?

You Will See It When You Believe It

2009-11-07T22:03:00.001-05:00

I have been on the self-improvement path since 1995. That was the year that one of my friends gave me Dr. Wayne Dyer’s book, You Will See It When You Believe It. Until that book, I had never ventured down the Self-Help aisle at the bookstore. That book literally changed my life. Well, for six weeks anyway.

You Will See It When You Believe It blew my mind. What do you mean, we can change the trajectory of our lives with a single thought? What do you mean that everything we are seeing in our lives right now is a consequence of what we have thought? Suddenly, I knew my life could be better. And knowing is a powerful thing. I knew I could banish the seborrhea that had plagued me my whole life. And, just like that, it was gone. I knew I could find a wonderful boyfriend to keep me company in Buffalo. The next day, I went to a doctor’s appointment and met the man I swore would be my future husband. I knew I could find a job in New York City even though everyone claimed the job market was bad. Within days, I met someone at the Minority Bar Association who liked me enough to forward my resume to a guy he went to school with, who just happened to be the Attorney General at the time.

Life was peachy for six weeks. Then, my chronic negative thinking kicked into overdrive. I fell into fear. “Yes, things are wonderful now, but how long can they last? Girl, you know you’ve had a hard life; do you really think things are going to get easy for you now all of a sudden? The seborrhea isn’t really gone, you know. You probably just tried a shampoo that somehow put it into remission. Do you honestly think an accomplished, rich, handsome, British guy is going to fall in love with you?? You’re poor. And from Honduras. You grew up in the projects. Really?? “

And, just like that, the magic stopped. My seborrhea reappeared. That was my first indication that I had broken the chain of positive thought. I tried desperately to mend it, but, that was just it – desperation – and desperation is a form of negativity, so the downward spiral continued. Thankfully, I had already landed the job in New York City, so I was able to move. But the job proved to be menial and boring. The guy I met in Buffalo had also landed a gig as a medical intern in New York City, but he had decided (shortly after visiting me at my family home in the Bronx) that we were from different socioeconomic levels (no shit, Sherlock) and that it would never work out between us.

Since that book in 1995, I have had moments of pure magic; times when I can bypass my programming and create something amazing. Those times are usually accompanied by the advent of another self-help book. Somehow, reading another person’s journey and how they overcame adversity and negativity to put the Law of Attraction into motion motivates me enough to get me to the next level.

In 1998, Iyanla Vanzant’s One Day My Soul Just Opened Up catapulted me out of the Attorney General’s office where I was fighting prisoners’ habeas corpus petitions for a pittance, to a law firm where I earned more money than both of my parents (and maybe a sister or two) combined.

In 2001, Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success convinced me that I could follow my dreams into the world of publishing.

In 2003, after I had slunk back to practicing law because I just couldn’t sustain the belief that I could be successful at writing and publishing, Dr. Dyer reappeared in my life withTen Secrets for Success and Inner Peace and I was able to leave litigation behind once and for all for the easier pace of insurance.

In 2006, Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret got me out of Manhattan into my current gig closer to home in the suburbs. I read it again in 2008, when my immune system turned against me and I was chronically ill for 8 straight months. Simply chanting “I feel great. I feel amazing. My body is working exactly as it should,” was enough to make it so for a few hours at a time.

Just recently, I read Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen’s The Aladdin Factor. It is less about the “magic” of manifestation, and more about getting focused on what you want – it’s surprising how many people don’t know what their heart’s desire is – and asking for it, sometimes over and over again, until you ask the right person. The book utilizes sales principles – the power of numbers – to focus you on getting what you want. If you ask 100 people, even if 99 say “no,” if you get that one person to say “yes,” you’ve attained nirvana. It is such a simple proposition, but one that most people cannot master. At one point, Canfield and Hansen say that people are crippled by the prospect of being embarrassed – of someone saying “no” to them, when the proper response to a “no” should be a loud internal “SO WHAT? NEXT!”

I have always known what God put me here to do. I write. I have a children’s book on my computer – all ready to go. I have essays that could be published in magazines. I have started to write a sci-fi book that everyone I’ve given the first chapters to loves. I have at least five viable ideas for television shows. Ask me how many of these writings I had sent out … None. The prospect of being rejected reduced me to a puddle of fear. That fear had always kept me from asking even one person. Suddenly, I realized that it didn’t matter if that person said no, someone would say yes. And now I feel like I have been freed from my self-created prison.

Since reading the Aladdin Factor, I have let all my friends know about my writing projects. I have asked for leads on getting my books published and getting my show ideas into the right hands. Some friends have been extremely helpful, even directing me to their friends who may be able to help me. Hallelujah! Others have been apathetic. SO WHAT? NEXT! I obtained the contact information for two people in the television writing industry. One woman responded to my e-mail requesting more information. Yes! The other ignored me altogether. SO WHAT? NEXT! What matters is that I believe it now. I truly do. So I know that I will see it soon. And knowing is a beautiful thing.

To Poot, or Not to Poot: That Is The Question

2009-10-10T11:40:00.002-04:00

Brendan had karate class yesterday. After he got on the mat, I sat in the waiting room with a few other parents who opted to stay to watch the lesson. Minutes later, a woman sitting a few seats next to me let out a soft fart. I tried not to look in her direction and I could see the other parents attempting the same. Unfortunately for her, though, she had another daughter with her, who was not in karate class, and as kids are likely to do, she put her mother on blast: "MOMMY! EEWWWW!!! YOU JUST FARTED!!!" The woman turned crimson, as the rest of us tried desperately to keep a straight face. "No, I didn't!" She finally barked at the offending child. Then, for good measure, "I don't find that funny, young lady." Her daughter was properly chastised, but she wasn't ready to go down without a fight, "What's that smell then, huh, huh??"

I sprang out of my chair and hurried outside to laugh in peace.

When I was done chuckling, I began to think about the situation a little more. Really, what was the big deal? It is a perfectly normal bodily function, yet, we here in America make a big deal about everything. Big Bren -- like most men -- asks what's the hold-up in the ladies room when we go out. Most times, I shrug and mumble something about women primping in front of the mirror, so you can't wash your hands without a wait or that there was a line to get to a stall. But, 9 times out of 10, the cause of the "hold-up" are the women in the stalls, sitting on the toilets, with their intestines seizing because they don't want to let out an "embarrassing" sound. I have heard (and done) everything to mask the tell-tale pooting or pooping sounds -- continuously unspooling toilet paper, unwrapping sanitary napkins, constant flushing of the toilet, singing, etc. The list goes on and on. It's something that we have been conditioned to do here in the States. Go anywhere else, and it's not an issue. In fact, I remember going to a store bathroom with an aunt who had recently arrived from Honduras. As she took the stall next to me, she let out a huge fart. "Tia!" I whisper-shouted (I didn't want to be acquainted with her). She responded calmly in her normal voice, "Child, please. Everyone knows that where there is rain, there is usually thunder." I ran out of the bathroom and pretended not to know her.

Another fart story and I promise to be done. When I first started dating Big Bren seriously, he sat me down and gave me his "rules." One of them was that I should never, ever, fart in his presence. And I should wait until he left the apartment before I took a dump. If I couldn't wait, I should make up an excuse to go elsewhere to take care of that "disgusting" business. I thought he was joking and flippantly said that I expected him to do the same then. He rolled his eyes at me and life went on.

Fast forward six months into our courtship and we are sitting on the couch in his living room watching a movie. As I settled into a comfortable position, a small fart escaped my butt. He sat up, eyes flashing. "What was that?" Me, sarcastically, "I think it's called a fart. In Spanish, it's 'pedo.' In Garifuna, it would be 'punguo'." With nostrils flaring (no pun intended), he got up, walked to the hall closet and got my coat. "I think you should go now." I just sat there thinking, "this mother*****r is crazy." I took my coat and left. He called me repeatedly on my way home -- likely so that I could show some contrition for my wayward innards, but I was through. We broke up for two weeks that time. Over some bodily gas. When we got back together, neither one of use mentioned the "incident" again.

The point of this scatological post is that people treat their psychological dysfunction the same way they do their gastric byproducts. We can all hear, see and smell the crap they are emitting, but they won't lay claim to it. Or, if they are ready, willing and able to do so, those near and dear to them won't allow them to do it (because of their own issues). Until they do, however, their innards, relationships and lives will keep seizing, trying to discharge the stuff they longer need. So let it go. Release it and sigh in relief.

Cringe

2009-10-08T22:46:00.003-04:00

To my Faithful Followers: I apologize for my absence. I have been in a funk.

You see, a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with my cou-sis (that’s not a typo – it’s my word for a cousin who is more like a sister to me) chatting about all sorts of things. As we were about to hang up, she casually asked if I was still “doing the blog thing.” I was a little taken aback; I had assumed that she was a loyal reader. After an awkward pause, I answered – probably a bit snippily – that, of course, I was still posting on my blog. Why? Another awkward silence, then she cautiously answered that she had stopped reading after the first few posts because each entry made her “cringe.”

“Is my writing that bad?” I asked, only half-jokingly.

“No, no, no! It’s not that at all. It’s just that your disclosures make me uncomfortable. I know what you went through; heck, I went through most of it with you. And what I didn’t experience in your house, I underwent at my own house. But I don’t think we need to yell those things from a rooftop. It’s not stuff I am proud of. So when I read your blog, I imagine what other people will think and I fear that they will judge you and the family because of it.”

I thought carefully about what my response would be. I could see her point, but, to be honest, I didn’t care. This was my life and my truth.

“T.,” I started slowly. “You are entitled to your own opinion. When I started the blog, I said that I longed to live a life of transparency and that I would no longer be cowed by fear or shame or guilt. I realize that people may judge me because of the life I have led or the things that I have done. That is their prerogative, but I choose to no longer judge myself, and I choose to move past the limitations of my background. The past is over and done with.”

I could tell she was still unconvinced. And it was not my job to convince her. Still, the conversation bothered me. Under the guise of concern about the judgment of others, I felt her judgment. Despite my defiance on the phone, I found myself retreating, doubting, getting depressed. And I did what I said I wouldn’t do – I stopped writing.

Then something jarred me back to the keyboard – Tyler Perry’s disclosure of the abuse that he suffered as a child. I, obviously, don’t know Tyler Perry, so what I’m about to say is going to sound quite silly: I am very proud of him for coming forward like that. Here is a person who acknowledges that he didn’t spring fully grown into the success he has.

He had his trials, tribulations and events that others told him should remain hidden. But he stepped into the light; even knowing that he would probably be ridiculed by some of the Black bloggers. (One site insinuated that he was gay because he admitted to being sexually abused by a man as a child. Frankly, it makes no difference to me whether he is gay or not. I think it’s more contemptible to worship rappers who unabashedly call women “bitches” and “hos” than to love someone of the same sex. But that’s just me. And it’s probably a rant best reserved for another post.)

In any event, I am back. And I promise not to hold back -- even if it makes some people cringe.

The Grateful Mind

2009-09-24T22:08:00.001-04:00

My house looks like a war zone.

In the middle of renovating the bathroom, Big Bren decided that he positively couldn't stand the front door and ripped out the old one, along with the walls surrounding it. In the meantime, the main bathroom is still gutted and out of commission, which means that I am stuck with two little boys making a mess in my shower and peeing all over the bathroom in my room. (That's as disgusting as it sounds. How boys cannot aim their penises into a hole as wide as a toilet is beyond me. I can take cleaning their bathroom once or twice a week, but I cannot stand going to the bathroom and -- if I happen not to look down first -- sitting in a puddle of someone else's urine.)

I was (and am) tempted to nag. It was driving me crazy to walk through (the now gorgeous) front door and see a toilet in my foyer. There is a thick layer of dust on everything; as soon as I wipe it off, more comes down from all the sanding and scraping that Big Bren is doing. And I was losing my mind over the fact that he didn't finish one task before beginning the other, so that now both are in limbo -- the door is unpainted and the walls around it are just sheetrock, while the bathroom is still not complete.

Sitting in the living room, looking at the mess, I felt a sense of despair. I felt like this was all there was ever going to be. I was never going to be able to clean all this up. The bathroom was never going to be finished. I would be stuck in this dusty purgatory forever! (Cue novela music for the drama queen.)

Then, suddenly, I was standing outside of myself, seeing how positively ridiculous I was being. Here Big Bren was, trying to make our home nicer and better, and I wanted to cry over dust! A few months from now, I will be entertaining in my new and improved home, the dust will be long gone and I won't even remember how uncomfortable the renovation period was. Big Bren has done other work in the house -- he put in new floors, gutted and renovated another bathroom, he changed the stairs, remodeled the kitchen and designed a new fireplace. And he did it a little at a time over the past five years. Ask me today and I cannot remember the details of any of the times he did the work.

Sometimes we need to step back and look at the bigger picture. If you take one moment at a time, taking time to be here -- in this moment -- now, things feel so much easier. Half of the time, our fears run away with us and we start projecting all this nonsense that has no basis in reality.

What alarmed me most about my despair was the absolute lack of gratitude with which I was seeing everything. I should have been grateful that Big Bren was doing all this work. I should have the foresight, the imagination, to envision what the "mess" would become. It brought to mind a quote by Wallace D. Wattles: "The grateful mind is constantlly fixed upon the best. Therefore, it tends to become the best. It takes the form or character of the best, and will receive the best."

I have to wonder whether my lack of gratitude, my lack of vision, my lack of discernment, is keeping me from moving forward in my life ...

Despojo

2009-09-18T21:04:00.003-04:00

My closet was a mess. I hadn’t cleaned it for almost a year. I still had clothes in a size 4; I now wear a size 10. (I should probably grapple with my weight issue – sooner, rather than later – but it simply is not a priority right now.)

I’ve read the books. I know that by holding on to things that no longer fit (my body or my life), I am creating a bottle-neck so that things that do fit cannot make it in.

At the point that I started to clean my closet, I didn’t know why the task was creating so much resistance in me. I am not a hoarder; the rest of my home would probably be considered sparse. My mother-in-law and mother come to my house, see designer bags they like and take them; I don’t mind. So why my closet was in such disarray was beyond me.

I took everything out and threw it on the floor. Now my closet and my bedroom were a mess. Then I walked away from it all and attended to more “urgent” matters: I went to the post office; I went to the grocery store; I took Brendan shopping for sneakers; I checked my e-mail; I read celebrity gossip on-line. When I could no longer avoid the mess in my room, I headed back to it with a scowl on my face.

The part of me that believes in scarcity demanded that I keep my stuff; the part of me that knows there’s abundance urged me to get rid of as much as possible -- much more would come in its stead. As I started throwing things out, I found that my mood lightened. I threw out everything that I hadn’t worn for more than two years. I threw out everything that had seen better days. I threw out anything whose fabric had pilled or that had seams that were coming loose. My closet and my room started looking better and better.

Then came the impossible: my journals. Where to begin? I had years and years of journals. I picked one up and encountered my 20 year old self whining about my father’s indifference and emotional abuse. The 23 year old me was obsessing about law school grades and finances. My 25 year old self was pining away for some fool who clearly had no interest in me. My 28 year old self was crying over some ass who’d stood me up. From 29 to 38, I was busy cataloguing every infraction committed by Big Bren. I found a few episodes of fun: my friend Mindy’s bachelorette weekend in Miami; my trip to Jamaica with co-workers; my first trip to Europe with my friend, Nycol; my second trip to Europe with my mother; and hanging out with my law school buddy, Cora. But, in between those bursts of sunshine, were long stretches of clouds and rain, usually because of some man. Where had my life gone? Had I really spent almost 39 years being miserable?

I went back to my earliest journals and found that most of them were filled with longing. Aching to be loved by my dad; yearning to have some sort of meaningful relationship with the man. So cliché, right? Brace yourself for more: all of my relationships with men had been patterned on that all-encompassing need to please my dad. I was in serial re-enactments of that love/rejection dance.

When I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse about myself, it finally seeped into my consciousness that my dad simply did not like me. He probably loved me, but he didn’t like me as a person. Much like the person I wrote about in my previous post, I grated on his nerves. And it was his right not to like me. There is no rule that says you have to like your children. Of course, the child me didn’t know any of this and each grunt he gave instead of responding to my attempts at conversation felt like a physical blow. Every time he directed a look or a question to one of my siblings, while pretending I didn’t exist, broke my heart. Even as a grown up, when I drove an hour out of my way to patronize his auto repair shop, only to have him charge me more than I would’ve paid had I not tried to give him the business, it hurt. He drove a knife into my very soul when I proudly gave him a copy of the magazine that had published my first article and he – without so much as glancing at it – threw it on the table and re-focused his attention on the t.v., as if I hadn’t even spoken.

Sitting in my closet, with the chaos surrounding me, I finally released everything. More importantly, I released him and I released that little girl inside who loved him and needed him so much. Many years ago, I forgave him for all the ills of my childhood; for the absolute fear I felt when he drank; and for the fact that the smell of liquor can send me reeling, even today. Although I had forgiven him, I had never released him. I was still holding on to that need, that longing. But when I dragged the garbage bags full of clothes, bags and books to the drop-off, I felt light. Like a new woman. It was a despojo – the sloughing off of the old and being renewed again.

I Just Don't Like You

2009-09-13T19:23:00.001-04:00

I wrote before about the constant admonitions we make to our children to "be nice." My parents were no different. Whenever I would express dislike for someone, my mother would say, "no sea odiosa; Dios te va castigar." "Don't be hateful; God is going to punish you." And I would immediately plaster a smile on my face and pretend all was well.

My mother can no longer tell me what to feel about whom, so now, I do it to myself. I beat myself up mentally because I simply do not like everyone. There is one particular person in my immediate circle who grates on my nerves just by existing. Even when this person does absolutely nothing, I cannot stand to be around them. I ask myself, "am I a bad person?" Then I think, "Lightning is going to strike me for my hateful ways!"

I am a month away from my 39th birthday and as a gift to myself, I have decided to no longer beat myself up over this issue. I know for a fact that sometimes I am the person who grates on another's nerves just by breathing the same air. There are times when no matter how hard I try, I still face rejection/disdain from another. So why should I be wracked by guilt over my feelings? I resolve to observe my feelings when I am around this person and try to find the origin of my dislike for them. If I cannot, I will allow myself to feel what I feel without judgment.

Time Marches On

2009-09-09T22:59:00.000-04:00

I feel like it was just yesterday that I brought Brendan home from the hospital. Today, he started kindergarten. I get why people get all nostalgic at this milestone in their children's lives.

No tears for me, but it got me reminiscing about his first five years. Of course, it wouldn't be ruMIRNAtions if I didn't drag you down memory lane with me. :-)

I don't know where the time went ...

One day he was my baby; next thing you know, he's a boy.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

2009-09-05T16:35:00.002-04:00

Brendan has developed the most annoying habit -- he expects equality in all things. He doesn't get the concept that he is not a grown-up or that children and grown-ups have different rights or capabilities. I'll be ordering at a drive-through and he will suddenly shout out his order, throwing me off-track and confusing the person on the other end. Or I'll take him to the store for shoes and, instead of waiting for me to tell the sales clerk that the shoe is too small or too big, he will holler directly to the clerk. When I tell him that he has to wait for me to do certain things, he responds with "why? It's my food/shoes, etc." In those instances, if looks were electricity, his little butt would get a serious shock.

I have tried everything: speaking, scolding, not speaking, time-outs, to no avail; he insists on doing it and questioning everything. If I tell him it's time to go to bed, he responds with, "you're not going to bed, why should I?" If I tell him to brush his teeth, his response is typically, "are you going to brush yours?" It is infuriating, to say the least. Yet, Brendan is not a disrespectful or defiant child; he usually asks with wide-eyed innocence. He just genuinely expects the rules to apply to everyone equally.

Growing up, our household was one where children were seen and not heard. As a result, my siblings and I have tried to give our children voices. My mother says that we "spoil" our children by allowing them to speak so freely.

In pondering the issue this morning after yet another bout of verbal sparring with my child, I finally realized what was irking me so much about Brendan's constant questioning of everything. It was that by doing so, he called to light the hypocrisy in so many of the rules. The "clean your room, or you get no allowance," where our room is in constant disarray. The "no cursing" rule, where the first thing that comes out of Big Bren's mouth at the slightest annoyance is an expletive. Ordering him to "be nice," when we often aren't nice ourselves.

And society isn't any different. We have our elected leaders telling us how to live our lives, while the government is falling apart at the seams. The countless governors espousing "family values," while their underage children are having kids out of wedlock or when they, themselves, are having affairs. The governor who was a former Attorney General getting caught patronizing a prostitution ring. The CEOs of companies allegedly "tightening the belt" by cutting workers' expenses and taking away perks, but they travel by corporate jet and give themselves exorbitant bonuses. The prosecutors sending people to jail for perjury, but the government lying -- with no repercussions -- about the reasons for going to war with another country.

The fact of the matter is that we live in a "do as I say and not as I do" world. The sad thing is that despite telling myself that I am giving Brendan a "voice," by scolding him when he exercises that voice, I am slowly muzzling him. He may ask 20 questions today; tomorrow, it will be 10; the day after, it will be 5. It would be easier to have a child who simply does as he is told, but I think I kind of like the fact that my child challenges the status quo. Just as long as he doesn't question me too much.

The Little Things

2009-09-03T15:33:00.001-04:00

Big Bren is renovating another bathroom in our house (I really, REALLY, need to stop complaining about things), so he had to shut off the water for 24 hours in order to do the plumbing.

You really don't think about water on a daily basis, do you? If you need to rinse something off, you absent-mindedly turn on the tap. You brush your teeth with the water running (even though you know you really should be conserving water). You tell yourself, "just one more minute," when the hot water rains down on you deliciously in the shower.

With the water gone, I was really at a loss as to how to do simple things. My parents deal with the lack of water situation every day in Honduras. They put out buckets to catch rain water for laundry. They make the short trek to my grandmother's well when they need water to wash dishes or bathe. They used purified water to brush their teeth and cook. And they are fine with it. Meanwhile, I was about to have a mini-breakdown. I couldn't bathe myself or Brendan. I couldn't cook. I couldn't wash dishes or do laundry. We ate out and used the bathroom at the restaurant; then we went to bed unwashed.

It wasn't until the morning that I realized that it wasn't the end of the world (and with Big Bren experiencing an unprecedented brain cramp when it comes to the plumbing for whatever reason, and the announcement that there would be no water for ANOTHER 24 hours, I'm glad I reached my moment of zen when I did). I pulled out all of our bottled water, heated some of it and used it to give Bren a quick bath. Then, we used more to brush our teeth. I put on my workout wear and was actually grateful for the lack of water because I would now be forced to go to the gym (they have showers!) for the first time in 3 months.

After my workout (and wonderfully toasty shower), I was in quite the good mood. After work, I am going to buy some 3-gallon containers of water and cook something yummy for my family. Sometimes, it's losing the little things that serve as a reminder of all the big things that we take for granted.

Reality Check-True Power

2009-09-02T21:58:00.007-04:00

I am honored to be a guest on my dear friend's blog. I thought it would be best to start by giving you a little bit of background about myself. I am a working mom of a two year old boy, who is the light of my life. Mirna and I attended law school together back in 1992 and have been hanging out together ever since. Through the years, we have commiserated on so many things, life, love, career, the meaning of life, spirituality. I think what keeps our bond strong is that we have grown together spiritually. We have both been through really tough times and have been there to give each other a lift up when it was most needed. And we were each other's teacher and student along the way. One of the things that Mirna has shown me is that writing can be a tremendous outlet, and a wonderful healing source. And so I thank you my dear friend for giving me this forum to stretch my writing muscles out!

In the past year I have had quite a few changes in my life. My husband, who was a NYC Detective, retired after 23 years. I left a job as a Senior claims manager at an insurance company where I had a promising career, and I relocated to Charlotte, NC, where we have purchased a monstrosity of a house (5,000 sq/ feet). I now work from home full time. I am doing the same type of work I had been doing for the past 8 years,but Iam making almost 1/2 of what I earned in NY. And my expenses have doubled. My husband, who thought he would be working right away, has still not been able to get a job. It's been a rather rough road. Don't get me wrong, I feel very blessed with all the things in my life, but of course, after I put my son to bed and finish cleaning and tidying up, I have time to let my mind go into dark places. I have been sensing an underlying anxiety, a restlessness within myself. Its very easy to blame my feelings on all these changes I have recently experienced, but I know myself, and its something more.

In speaking with Mirna the other day, I tried to explain how I felt. And it suddently came to me,...I feel like I have not done anything to make a difference in this world. Oh sure, I give money to charities, I hold the door open for the elderly, I donate my clothing and food to the various organizations. But will people know who I am when I am gone? I suddenly felt very sad...and powerless. When I was in law school, I had such wonderful dreams, that I would cure the injustices of the world, my work would have a profound impact on so many lives, I would be known by so many, that i would be powerful! And now, almost 15 years later, I find myself working in a small office in my home, adjusting professional liability claims. And I just wanted to cry.

Of course, as I'm sure we all know, when there is breakdown, there is breakthrough. And the minute I felt this despair over my so called "insignificant life", I heard my son calling me outside my door...Mommy, where are u? And it hit me...I make ALL the difference to him! My son would not be here, would not be who he is, without me. And he in turn, brings so much joy to everyone around him, because of me. And then I thought of my husband, who lights up when he sees me (and I'm not in a bad mood :-)) or my mom, who is currently living with us, and who I fully support. And I thought...wow...I am the world to these peoople. And then I thought of all my friends and loved ones who are in my life, who I reach out to on a consistent basis. Birthdays that I help celebrate, times that I've given my shoulder for them to cry on. And I realized that I make a profound difference to everyone that has come into contact with me. And I had what Oprah would call an Aha moment...I suddenly knew what real power meant. It doesnt mean having a fabulous job, or making a ton of money, or being famous. Its having the knowledge that we have an impact on everyone we come into contact with. And we can choose in that moment whether we want to make a difference in a person's life or not.

I suddenly recalled my last flight to NY from Charlotte. There was a young mother on the plane behind me with a screaming toddler on her lap. Prior to having my own kid, I would have rolled my eyes and tried to ignore them. Now with a kid, I really felt empathy for her. But that day, I did more than just feel for her. I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to hold him while she got herself together. She handed him over to me with a look of such gratitude, that I knew I made a difference in her life at that moment....

Introducing "Reality Check" by Mindy

2009-09-01T16:30:00.003-04:00

Hello, Faithful Followers.

I am opening up my blog to a special guest. My buddy, Mindy, has decided to grace us with some posts under the moniker "Reality Check."

Like me, Mindy is a working mom who is juggling the realities of being a mom, wife, worker and a woman.

I can't wait to see what she has to say! :-)

My Mother, the Medical Records & Me

2009-08-27T14:45:00.003-04:00

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; but when it comes to me and my mother, nothing could be farther from the truth.

I’ll be honest and say that I have never had a job that I truly liked. I don’t like getting up early. I don’t like working 5 days a week. I don’t like people telling what to do and when to do it. When I get home at the end of the workday, I like to pretend that my place of employment doesn’t exist.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is my mother. Now here is a woman who thrives on authority. At home, she defers to my father; at work, she treated management with a deference reserved for minor deities. In all her working years, my mother was never sidelined by illness, weather or family obligations. When she couldn’t find a baby sitter, she preferred to leave the four of us alone with a full refrigerator and admonitions not to open the door to strangers, than to miss a day of work. Rain or shine, snow or sleet, my mother was up at 6 a.m. and out of the door by 7:30.

My mother held several jobs during my childhood – sometimes, simultaneously. When I was about 7, she was the cleaning lady/bathroom attendant at a posh movie theatre in Manhattan. I have never seen anyone take so much pride in scrubbing human excrement off toilets. My mother’s bathrooms were spotless. The regulars came to know which days my mother worked and would only go to the movies on those days. My mother often received $50 bills in her tip jar. She was the best paid bathroom attendant on the East side.

As we were growing older, my mom decided that she wanted a more “respectable” job and went back to school. She obtained a certificate and became a nurse’s aide.

Although my mother liked the patients, for once, she clashed with her supervisors. They wanted her to spend 10 minutes or less getting the patients cleaned and dressed in the mornings. My mother dawdled – cleaning that last bit of crust from Mr. Smith’s eye or putting lotion on Ms. Jones’ ashy arms. Ultimately, she decided (with a heavy heart) to leave nursing behind and go back to school.

When my mother finished secretarial college almost 20 years ago, she was hired at a local hospital in the Medical Records department. She regaled us (fine, she bored us) with the details of endless days spent creating, sorting, filing and storing medical records. She dazzled her superiors with her knack for organization. She found records that had been declared missing years before. Soon, she had a line of doctors asking for her by name. She was the go-to person when representatives from the Health and Hospital Corporation showed up to audit files. My sisters and I discreetly rolled our eyes as the stories went on and on. She received a plaque for being employee of the year – we stifled yawns.

We were baffled that with 4 biological children, 1 adopted child and 7 grandchildren, my mother could lay so much stock in medical records. For crying out loud, how much difference could a person make locating and filing medical records?

In 2005, my mother retired from her beloved job at the hospital. She was so depressed, she took to her bed for months. She couldn’t mention medical records without getting teary-eyed. We continued to roll our eyes while we made her bowl after bowl of chicken soup.

About a year ago, I got into a fender bender and took my car to a shop in the neighborhood where my mother used to work. When I was in the waiting room, I met a lady who worked at the Department of Health and we got to talking. I soon found out that her job was to audit medical records.

As I was leaving, she told me that I reminded her of a wonderful woman she used to work with at a local hospital. She said that this woman was the best clerk she had ever had the good fortune to meet during her audits. This woman located records that no one else could; she responded to requests promptly and courteously; and the medical records she created were so well organized, that the information practically leapt out at you. But, alas, she had gone to the hospital a few months ago and was told that her friend had retired. Her presence was sorely missed, she said.

As she spoke, my jaw dropped.

“By any chance,” I asked when I could speak again, “did this woman work at the hospital down the street?”

“Why, yes!” She exclaimed, “however did you know?”

“And was her name Balby?” I asked and held my breath.

“Yes! Yes! Do you know her?” She asked.

“Yes, I do.” I said, smiling proudly. “The woman of whom you speak is my mother.”

Breakfast at McDonald's

2009-08-27T10:08:00.002-04:00

This is supposedly a true story; even if it’s not, it has a wonderful lesson in it, so I pass it on:

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree. The last class I had to take was Sociology. The teacher was absolutely inspiring, with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with. Her last project of the term was called, “Smile.”

The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions. I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning. It was our way of sharing special playtime with our son. We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did. I did not move an inch, as an overwhelming feeling of panic had welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around I smelled a horrible “dirty body” smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.

As I looked down at the shorter gentleman, closest to me, he was “smiling.” His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance. He said, “Good day” as he counted the few coins he had been clutching. The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.

I held my tears as I stood there with them. The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted. He said, “Coffee is all Miss” because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).

Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes. That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.

I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray. I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand. He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Thank you.” I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, “I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.”

I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said, “That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.” We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.

We are not church goers, but we are believers. And that day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.

I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand. I turned in “my project” and the instructor read it. Then she looked up at me and said, “Can I share this?” I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class. She began to read and that is when I knew that we, as human beings and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son, the instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.

I graduated wit h one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn: UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS – NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE.

Rear View Mirror

2009-08-25T11:30:00.002-04:00

Looking in the rearview,

Everything is distorted,
What is close? What is far?
What is real? What is not?

Reflecting on my hubris
Thinking it all came from me
Yet knowing there was so much more
Than what my puny eyes could see

On my knees now, no regret
Praying for wisdom on this path
Asking for guidance and a light
To navigate this aftermath

Of my pride and arrogance
Oh, that narcissistic me
Who thought the world was nothing more
Than something to kowtow to me

Not looking in the rearview now
Focused on the views ahead
Trying hard to do things right
And to live with no regret

-- Mirna M. Santiago

The Weight of the World

2009-08-19T16:37:00.004-04:00

My middle sister has been in Honduras visiting our parents for the past 10 days. And every day, she has sent me a text complaining about: the weather ("it's miserably hot!); the people ("no one has any sense of personal space, and can we talk about the BO?"); the people again ("please send down a bus-load of deodorant; the body odor of these people is killing me!); the amenities ("they shut off the running water every morning for several hours down here. If you don't get up at dawn to take a shower, you're SOL. Come to think of it, that may explain the body odor issue"); and the critters ("can they have any more friggin' bugs?? I'm probably gonna catch Malaria or Denge fever on this alleged vacation").

Finally, I had to text back: "Why do you keep going there? Every year you spend all of your vacation time there and every year, I keep hearing these exact same complaints."

Her response: "Someone has to look after our parents."

Our parents are older, yes, but extremely healthy. They can fend for themselves and, unlike my sister, they enjoy being in their country. My poor sis has taken on the weight of the world (not to mention body odor, stifling heat and bugs) "looking after" people who don't want to be looked after. Go figure.

Intangibles

2009-08-16T10:07:00.007-04:00

After posting yesterday, I went to bed with the feeling of "not enough." I was a big ball of "I want ..." I questioned whether God listened to, let alone answered, prayers. God responded.

I fell into a dream where I was standing on a bridge. On one end of the bridge was Life; on the other end was Death. I could choose to go in either direction; the only caveat being that my loved ones had to go the opposite way. To help me cope with their absence, God allowed me to take a few things from each one. Oddly, I was not distraught by this turn of events; instead I was focused. I was determined to get the best things from each person, so that I would almost feel like that person was there with me while I waited to see them again. When one of my sisters passed by, I grabbed her walk. From my brother, I held on to his amazing smell. And so it went; each person went by and I took from them something unique to them.

At the end of the line was Brendan. In his little arms was a big, heavy bag bursting with goodies. I looked at him with some sadness. "I can't take any of that stuff with me, Bren." "But, Mommy," he said, pulling the bag closer to me. "Look inside. Here is the smell of the pancakes we get at the diner when we have Brendan and Mommy time. Here is the sunset over the mountains behind our house when we sit together on the deck. Here is the feel of my hand in yours when we are walking down the street. Here we are picking string beans from our garden. In this one, we are making pizza. There are so many great things in here. Are you sure you can't take them?"

I awoke with the heavy sensation of sadness in my heart. Here I was, obsessing about relatively stupid things, when, in fact, if I were to die tomorrow, none of it would matter. Brendan wouldn't care that I bought him the most expensive uniform shirts; he would remember my laugh, my hugs, our bedtime stories or cuddling in the morning. He would think of me when he went to the park and even when he cleaned his room. Not to say that money isn't important, it obviously is, but it's the intangibles that make for true happiness.

Where My Burger At?

2009-08-15T22:41:00.009-04:00

The past year has been one of financial hardship for me. Even to most people who know me well, this revelation will come as a surprise. I am not much of a talker; especially when it pertains to those parts of my life with which I am not thrilled.

At times, I wonder what has become of my life. I invested 7 years and $70,000 into my schooling, only to find myself – 15 years into the legal game – suffering money woes. I have always had champagne taste. For much of my working life, though, I have managed to have – at least – top shelf liquor wallet. This past year, however, my wallet has been decidedly beer, maybe even soda.

It started with the discrimination lawsuit against Zurich Insurance Company. The EEOC issued their finding that Zurich had discriminated against me; instead of offering at least an apology and the back pay to which the EEOC held I was entitled, Zurich offered a portion of the back-pay and a heaping serving of “eff you.” I could have walked away from the situation with my head held high; after all, I had already been vindicated by the EEOC’s determination. Instead, I allowed my injured pride and anger at the company and the situation to get the better of me and I proceeded to file a lawsuit against them. The situation has been dragging on for the better part of 5 years, but the litigation really heated up last year. In addition to paying my attorney out-of-pocket, I’ve had to shoulder the burden of countless depositions and their associated costs. Zurich has now filed a motion for summary judgment, to which we have had to respond and pay fees for. Turns out my pride and anger came at a very steep price.

Then, Brendan was at the age to start pre-school. And it so happens that our school district did not offer a free pre-school program. So, into private school he went – at $13,000 a year (which was one of the cheapest private schools I could find). This year, he’s ready for kindergarten, but the county doesn’t offer full-day kindergarten. So, that’s another $13,000.

Coming from the family I come from, this past year has been horrific for me. It was the first time in my adult life where the ends were not meeting. Heck, they weren’t even close enough to wave to each other. Each month found me liquidating assets to try to bridge the gap. And the financial bloodbath shows no signs of letting up: as I have written before, my company did not issue bonuses this year and has no plans of issuing any the coming year. Now, there is talk of a salary freeze. I am afraid. Very afraid. I don’t want to use up what I’ve worked so hard to save.

As always, in times of fear, I – like most folks – look for someone to blame. I was at a Bar Association event this past week where I met up with one of my good friends from law school. She confessed that she, too, was struggling. She married into an identical situation as mine; her husband has the same job as Big Bren and also has two children from a prior marriage. There were attorneys we knew there who married other attorneys. They seemed to be doing well, so invariably, the conversation turned to whether we had settled for “hamburger,” instead of waiting a little longer for filet mignon. We reasoned that, without the money flowing out to support other children, we’d have more to work with at home. And with the higher earning potential of our ideal partners, money wouldn’t be an issue.

I can tell you from personal experience that regret and resentment are horrible things; they will practically eat you alive. In just the past week after my friend and I had that conversation, I have been looking at everything through poop-colored glasses. School is starting in a few weeks, so I have had to shell out big bucks for Brendan’s uniforms, supplies, etc. And I have done so with such resentment that I cannot even describe it in words. I don’t resent Brendan; despite my financial shortcomings, I still want him to have the best I can possibly provide. I resent his father. Suddenly, the poor man is not “enough”; he doesn’t do enough; he doesn’t provide enough.

Today, he went to buy back-to-school clothes for the two other kids and I could barely swallow the bile that rose in my throat and threatened to choke me. “That’s money that should go towards Brendan’s uniforms!” my brain screamed. He wrote a check to the Psycho for child support and my mind went, “That should go towards tuition!” Then I stop to think about the wonderful things about him: how every day, at least once a day, he makes me laugh so hard, my sides hurt; how when he's holding my son, I feel like I'm seeing double; the time that I complained about one of the bathrooms and came back from work to find it completely gutted and him already working on the renovations; how he can fix anything -- yes, anything -- in the house and has saved us tons of money because of his handiness; how he makes my toes curl in the bedroom; how he sends me flowers at work "just because"; and how he goes with me to all of my Bar Association events because I just don't like people all that much.

At the end of the day, this is the life that I chose. For better or worse; for richer or poorer. It goes in cycles. And maybe people aren't just hamburger OR filet mignon; maybe they can be different things in different areas of their lives. In any event, having a good hamburger can sometimes be more satisfying than an ill-prepared filet mignon.

Fire, Meet Butt

2009-08-03T14:07:00.002-04:00

When I accepted my position with the company I work for almost three years ago, I said that it would be a temporary thing. You know, until Brendan got older. Until we got our bearings in Putnam County. Until, until, until …

It’s not a bad job. My boss is based in Pennsylvania and pops up maybe once every other month. I set my own schedule and, as long as my work gets done, he leaves me alone. The people I work with are amazing; genuinely nice people. But – and there’s always a but – I took a $40,000 pay cut in order to accept the job. And, the work has never been challenging to me. At the time, I figured it was worth it to cut 2.5 hours out of my daily commute (which translates directly to spending more time with my family and less wear and tear on me).

Then, last year, the insurance market softened and my company began cutting its losses. It cut out almost every perk it had ever given. Cars and Blackberries were taken back. Administrative assistants were laid off. At the time, I remember vaguely thinking, “this might be a good time to look for another job.” Frankly, though, I was too comfortable to do so.

The next quarter it was announced that, while the company had made a profit, it would no longer be sharing them with the workforce in the form of bonuses. I groused about this to my boss, who had promised me that I would make back most of my pay cut in the generous bonuses the company always paid out. He said that this was a “temporary setback” and we’d be back to getting our liberal bonuses next year.

Then a few months ago, an e-mail came out that they would no longer be providing coffee in the break room. Alrighty then. My father (otherwise known as “El Cheapo”) provided coffee in the break room of his auto repair shop, but this Fortune 500 company can’t provide coffee?? Then another e-mail: no more paper products, either (i.e. paper towels, plates, etc.). The people at my office continued to smile and brought in their own coffee, plates, utensils and napkins.

Last week, it was announced that we’d be getting no bonuses in 2010 due to the company’s failure to meet its financial goals (although it still made enough of a profit to pay the outgoing CEO over $20 million for stock options).

Then, as of today, everyone has to keep a timesheet. I haven’t kept a timesheet in over 10 years. And I have never heard of so-called “executives” of companies keeping timesheets.

In “One Day My Soul Just Opened Up,” Iyanla Vanzant said that one needs to listen when Life gives you subtle hints. If Life is knocking gently at your door and you’re ignoring it, it will knock harder and harder. One day, it may even knock your door off its hinges; one way or the other, you need to respond. Preferably before things escalate.

Granted, these “changes” are, in the bigger scheme of things, relatively minor. I have a job; there are so many out there that do not. But the truth is that there are so many things I want to do; none of which involve insurance. Yet, for the past 7 years, I have kept myself mired in the insurance world, because it was the easiest, safest, thing for me to do. Perhaps Life’s insistent knocking is telling me that it is time to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps the annoyance of time sheets and having no napkins to wipe your hands after lunch is simply the fire that I needed under my butt to get me moving.

Eye of the Beholder

2009-07-30T15:31:00.002-04:00

When I was a kid, it always puzzled me when my mom insisted on going pretty much everywhere with my dad. My uncles would hang out together; they would even go to Honduras solo, but my mom wasn't having it. When I was about 10, I remember asking her why she was so clingy. (Of course I didn't phrase it that way -- I valued my teeth too much to get them knocked out for being "disrespectful.") Her response was something to the effect that good men are scarce and women would kill to have my father.

I have to admit that I looked at her sideways. I was odd as a kid (oh, who am I kidding? I'm a bit odd now!), so I never had that "I adore my daddy" phase. Whereas most little girls saw their dads as gorgeous superheroes, I just saw my dad for what he was -- a hardworking, but cranky, aging, and not-so-goodlooking man with alcoholic tendencies. And in my 10-year-old mind, I could not for the life of me fathom why anyone else would want him. Hell, I didn't know why my own mother wanted him.

I am 38 years old; my parents are still together; and even though my father is almost 70 years old, my mother still accompanies him everywhere he goes. Ask her today why she does that and she will give you the same response she gave what feels like a million years ago: good men are at a premium and there are women out there who would kill to have a good husband.

The other day, I had to attend a Young Lawyers event as the representative from another section of the New York State Bar Association. As I walked out the door, Big Bren called out after me, "don't flirt with anybody!" Then he proceeded to text me several times during the event just to see how I was doing. Honestly, I don't think any young boys fresh out of law school were checking for me, and while my wrinkles and back fat are not getting any more endearing with age, it was kind of cool to know that Big Bren still thinks I'm desireable enough to be protective of.

Quantum Leap

2009-07-16T17:04:00.002-04:00

When I was younger, one of my favorite shows was Quantum Leap. The protagonist had created a time machine and he could leap from time to time fixing problems in people's lives. These weren't minor issues; these were events that would derail that person's life and altar the course of his/her future. The only caveat was that he could not do it in his own form. So, his soul -- I don't remember how they explained it, but that's what I understood it to be -- would displace the soul in that person's body. In the meantime, the other "soul" had to sit in a "waiting room" somewhere while he "fixed" the problem.

There are times in my life where I wish I could be that displaced soul -- just chillin' somewhere while someone else handles the crap. There are situations that I find myself repeatedly in that I don't want to experience again but do not know how to get out of. There are circumstances that I wish I could fast-forward through; where my very skin tightens up and my heart starts to pound. Events that bring you to your very knees; where no matter what choice you decide to make, it feels like the wrong one.

My sister would say to take a deep breath, let go and let God. But sometimes, it feels like God is just not moving fast enough ....

Please step into this box over here ...

2009-07-01T13:44:00.001-04:00

I was on a website today and ran into a comment by someone who referred to Blacks and Hispanics as People of More Melanin (POMM). And I actually like it. I have been uneasy with color classifications for many years and with my son being who he is, I am reluctant to call people "Black" or "White" anymore (not to mention that his father's family has such an assortment of colors that they can't really be classified). When absolutely necessary to speak about someone's color, I've been resorting to calling people as I saw them: "brown" and "light brown" and "beige" (desperate times, people).

Thoughts? Ingenious or just another useless classification?

Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

2009-06-22T22:19:00.004-04:00

I am reading an interesting book -- Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, Ph.D. -- which postulates that the majority of people seek out romantic partners who closely resemble the character traits of their parents. The reason for this, says Hendrix, is that children, as helpless little people, are at the mercy of their parents; so, as adults, we seek to "fix" whatever dysfunction we were subjected to at home.

This theory is not new, of course; Sigmund Freud said about as much in his many writings. And, even before I heard this theory, I often complained that Big Bren seemed to encompass all the things I hated about my parents -- sometimes he is cold, emotionally unavailable/neglectful and impossible to please.

I was making dinner today when I decided that I absolutely had to have grilled steak. It was drizzling outside and our wooden deck was dotted with raindrops. I carefully made my way over to the grill and put the steaks on the fire. In my eagerness to get back inside, I neglected to dry my feet and rushed onto the marble floor. I had taken two steps when one foot hit a patch of moisture and I went careening toward the floor. I tried to break my fall by putting my arm out and instead fell on my hand -- hard. My knees quickly followed. The whole house seemed to shake when I finally hit the floor. I just stayed there, reeling from the pain shooting through my legs and arm.

Then something unprecedented happened: my husband gently raised me, placed me on his lap and held me to his chest. With as much tenderness as I have ever seen him exhibit, he rubbed my knees and hand until the pain went away. Tears rushed to my eyes (again! For those of you keeping count, that's twice in two weeks -- I fear that I am losing my iron maiden edge). Not so much from the pain -- although I told him it was -- but because when I fell as a child, I was never the recipient of such kindness and love. I felt about 7 years old again, but instead of being told to get up, brush myself off and not dare cry over something as insignificant as a fall, I was being nurtured and even coddled.

When I felt better, I brushed away the tears and rushed off Big Bren's lap (old habits die hard). But I was left with the knowledge that each person should be judged on his/her own merits and not based on a projection of what others may have done (or failed to do).

Thank you, D.

Tired

2009-06-20T11:51:00.005-04:00

I have a confession to make: I get tired of being "Mommy" sometimes. There are days when I don't want to hear whining or complaining or backtalk. When I don't want to be the keeper of shoes, the bather, the dresser, the feeder, the cuddler, the goodnight storyteller, the toenail clipper or the boo-boo kisser. Some mornings I don't want my eyes pried open before I am ready to awaken. I don't want to hear arguing over whose pretend friend is cooler. It is psychically exhausting to have your entire existence be about someone else.

Alec Baldwin got a lot of flack a while back for calling his daughter a "thoughtless little pig." While I don't think I could resort to calling a child that to his/her face, I will 'fess up and say that I have thought it. That and "ungrateful little pig." And that was just yesterday when, after working the full day, I picked Brendan up from daycare and thought it would be nice to take him out to a dinner that he would enjoy (pancakes at the local diner). No sooner had our food been served that Brendan started acting up, backtalking when I asked him to pick up his place mat and yelling at me that he wanted me to pick it up. He then took a few swats at me. I have to admit that this was atypical behavior for him -- and that resulted in his being punished -- but the hatefulness, the lack of gratitude and thoughtlessness (even for a 5 year old) was cause for disappointment.

I love my child more than anything in the world; I would give up my very life if he needed it. And sometimes I feel like that is exactly what I do every day.

Invisible

2009-06-18T20:25:00.004-04:00

It is 2009. Long after Dr. Martin Luther King marched and died. Long after Malcolm X urged insurrection. Long past Jim Crow and “separate but equal.” And, yet, racism is alive and well.

I live in Putnam County, which – despite being a mere 57 miles north of New York City – is still predominately white. I have gotten used to getting the side-eye when I am out with Big Bren. The second glances my bi-racial child garners have become second nature. They don’t bother me anymore. But, no matter how many times one experiences it, once cannot get used to racism, whether latent or blatant.

Two times this week, I have entered a restaurant, waited patiently to order and when it came to be my turn, was skipped over by the host/proprietor in favor of the white patrons behind me. In the first case, the white couple gently reminded the hostess that I was there first. In the second case, the young boys glanced over then proceeded to place their order. Both times, my blood boiled over. I felt marginalized; invisible. And while another, self-respecting Black person would have walked out, I opted to stay, choking on my anger, along with my food.

What was worse is that in the second instance this week, Big Bren was in the restaurant with me. And I felt comfortable enough to say to him, through gritted teeth, “what am I? Invisible?” Only to have him minimize my feelings and my anger by saying “You moved, that’s why he skipped over you.” “Yeah, I moved from second place to first place, when the woman in front of me finished placing her order!” Sarcastically: “Oh, it must be because you’re Black then.”

The tears welled up in my eyes; not just because of the indignity, but because, after 10 years together, here was something he would never understand. It felt like the scene from that movie, Something New, when Sanaa Lathan’s character was trying to vent to her white beau, played by Simon Baker, about some injustice at work and he blows her off, saying that he was tired of hearing Black people whine about prejudice and racism all the time.

Before this, I had never looked upon Big Bren as something other than me. When I filed a discrimination complaint against Zurich Insurance Company – my employer at the time – when they wouldn’t give me an accommodation after I gave birth that they had given to numerous white parents, he was unwavering in his support. And when the EEOC issued its finding that Zurich had discriminated against me, it felt like a vindication for us. It was us against the world. In a span of 10 seconds, he became part of that world and I was reduced to invisibility yet again.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy (and Serendipity)

2009-06-11T15:17:00.002-04:00

My BFF Mindy always jokes that I’ve put everyone on blast in my blog, except her. Well, today is your day, Min.

I was bitching to Mindy on the phone about how I am never the beneficiary of serendipity. Why can’t I stumble and land into a quarter-million dollar position like one of our friends? Why don’t amazing things happen to me?? Her head-scratching response: “You don’t make them happen.”

Woman, please, that defeats the purpose of “serendipity,” doesn’t it?

Mindy broke it down for me like this: There is no such thing as “luck.” What we call luck is really one’s approach to life. For instance, there could be three people in a diner. Unbeknownst to the others, one is a tycoon, capable of making great employment wishes come true. One person is a “Mirna” – she sits there drinking her coffee and eating her muffin without so much as looking up for fear that she’ll actually make eye contact with someone and have to speak to them. The other person is a “Miles” (our friend who landed the job) – he sits there smiling, looking around, just waiting for a chance to chat someone up.

In that situation, take a wild guess who would likely land the dream job? Yes, Miles. Simply because he was open. And even if he didn’t land a job that day, no doubt Miles would’ve asked for the tycoon’s number and continued to befriend him, thereby increasing his network and almost guaranteeing himself a better job. And as soon as he did, the “Mirna” would be on the phone whining about what a lucky bastard he was.

I’d never thought of it like that before. But Mindy is absolutely right. Sure, there are things that God seems to thrust in your path, but if you don’t pick them up and make them yours (your actions), they won’t happen. Think back to the things that you considered to have been serendipitous and focus in on the things that you did to make them so. Kinda makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?

On Aging

2009-06-05T13:42:00.005-04:00

I was tying Brendan's shoes when he suddenly grabbed my face in both of his hands. With the utmost concern, he says, "Mommy! You have cracks by your eyes. Is your face breaking or something!??"

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the true fountain of youth -- whether it removes the wrinkles that alarmed Brendan so much or not -- is being around a child. My boy has such an innocent, refreshing take on life.

Frozen

2009-05-27T21:31:00.004-04:00

My father wanted to have a house full of boys. That was his dream ... It didn't happen. His first child was male; but he died a few months later. He was then blessed with twins -- a boy and a girl. Then he got hit with the plague: one girl after another. This was an offense for which he never forgave my mother (as if it were her fault). And he never forgave us, either.

His anger and derision weren't that apparent when he was sober. True, when we spoke to him directly, he answered us with grunts and monosyllables. And he whistled when he needed something, instead of asking for it. And he'd make comments about women's intellectual inferiority and lack of driving ability. But that was it. When he drank, though, his venom came out in full force. He called us "chancletas" - slippers, things that you stepped on. He said that we should take our mother's surname because we were just borrowing his anyway -- just until we got pregnant and had to get married, at which point we would take our husbands' names. He said that he was smarter than all of us, our mother included, combined. He said we would never amount to anything and he was wasting money by paying for our schooling.

The weird thing is that although he derided us for being girls, he didn't let us be girls. If something hurt our feelings and we cried, he ridiculed us relentlessly. We weren't allowed to show emotion or weakness. That was hard; not just because we were females, but because we were children. And no matter what we did, how much we excelled in school, we knew that it would never be enough, because he had already stamped us "unworthy" by virtue of having been born with vaginas instead of penises.

It was most difficult for my oldest sister, who had a sunny, happy disposition and was built like a girl, soft and curvy. She was also emotional and open and for that paid the steep price of being labeled the "weak" one or the "dumb" one. My brother wasn't as aggressive as my father would have liked him to be; he was soft-spoken and enjoyed music more than he liked sports. But he was a boy and that was enough. My middle sister was loud and obnoxious; but she was funny and commanded attention. Insofar as my father could love anyone, he loved her.

As for me, I was the forgotten child. I wasn't considered weak or dumb, but I was rarely the center of attention, like my other sister. I learned to lay low and not draw fire. I retreated into my books and into myself. I built an impenetrable wall that could withstand the neglect, the mental abuse and alcohol-fueled vitriol.

The wall served me well. When I was harassed at school because of my broken English, I held my head up high and stared the bullies down. Being bullied by another child was nothing compared to being bullied by a grown man at home, so bring it on. And had I been a typical child, I would have fallen to pieces when my sister tried to commit suicide when she was 15 and I was 10. Instead, I knew I had to get her up and walking and gave her water to flush the bottle of pills out of her system. All without alerting our parents, who would've only used the episode as further proof of her "weakness."

The wall also came at a price -- being numb to all; feeling frozen on the inside. I had boyfriends, but I could take them or leave them. My three grandparents and great-grandmother died and I shed not a single tear for any of them. I felt like no one had cared for me, so why should I care about anyone?

It wasn't until my 29th year, when I got the carbon monoxide poisoning in my apartment, that I began to feel again. You see, carbon monoxide adheres to the cells of your brain and robs them of oxygen, killing them slowly. And it just so happened that the cells the carbon monoxide effected in my brain were the ones at the emotional center. For almost a year, I was off-kilter. I cried at anything. I got angry at the slightest offense. I felt like I was losing my mind; and in actuality, I did. I lost my old mind.

One day, sitting in my Murray Hill apartment all alone, I felt deeply in my soul that it was time to leave the old me behind. I fell into a bottomless depression for which I ended up taking six weeks of psychiatric disability leave. I could not let go. I felt embarrassed that this thing had happened to me. To this day, I have never told my parents the facts surrounding my carbon monoxide poisoning or the effects it had on me. When they saw it on the news, I played it off as this little incident at the building. I never told them that the police had to break down my door to get me out because I had passed out. I never said that the firefighter who carried me out -- unconscious and in my underwear -- told me that had I been in the apartment but 15 minutes more, I would have died. To feel fear would have been weakness; and I wasn't weak.

When my disability time was up, I resigned from my firm. The ultimate testosterone-fueled job -- litigator -- was no longer for me. I took the next few years to find myself. I allowed myself to cry when I felt like it. If I felt angry, I gave myself permission to feel it, instead of pushing it down.

As they say, God makes no mistakes, so my being at home at the precise time that the flue pipe in the boiler snapped and began feeding carbon monoxide back into the heating system was no coincidence. My being rescued those 15 minutes before I would surely have died was no mistake (others in that building were not so lucky). And the carbon monoxide targeting and thawing my frozen emotional center was not left to chance. I still have moments where I retreat behind my wall, but I know that I was given a second chance at a normal life and for that, I give thanks to God every day.

Physics

2009-05-26T22:26:00.007-04:00

A few days ago, I got an e-mail from a co-worker thanking me for saving the company a significant amount of money. Background: she had been advised by outside counsel to pay on a case that she didn't think the company owed. She came to me -- since I'm in-house counsel -- to get a second opinion on the advice. Upon researching the matter, I uncovered some very recent cases that the outside counsel had overlooked, which were the direct opposite of the advice he was giving her. She took a gamble and asserted the position I suggested and the court sided with us, holding that our company had no liability for the damages sought by the plaintiff. Upon receiving the e-mail, I was on cloud nine. I forwarded it to Big Bren. I let my boss in on our win. Long story short; everyone within hearing distance heard about this case. Honestly, I wasn't bragging; I was just happy (ahem, ahem). As an attorney, rarely does anyone come back to me and say "thank you" for anything I've done.

I was still abuzz with happiness the next day when I got called into a conference with three managers in the office. As soon as I walked in, I could tell that this meeting wasn't going to end with a "thank you." I'd suggested to one of the managers that he pay on a case and he didn't want to hear it, so he'd gotten some reinforcements.

I was okay until he started yelling. He had worked for the company for 20 years and never had he received such ridiculous advice. He wasn't paying on this case and that was final. He didn't care what Legal said. Every time I opened my mouth to speak, he brayed (I'm sorry, but he was acting like a donkey). The other two managers purportedly agreed (although he was hee-hawing so loudly that they couldn't get a word in edgewise, either). The "meeting" ended with me cutting him short and saying that he could do whatever he wanted to do, but I wasn't going to be left holding the bag when (not if) the company was sued for bad faith. AND I was going to document the file to that effect (so there! I really wanted to say that and stick my tongue out at him for good measure, but I didn't).

I stomped back to my desk and documented the file -- stuffing it with every legal reference I could find that supported my position. Then I sat there and seethed for most of the day. Soon enough, though, I realized that -- as they say -- for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. I'd had my day in the sun, now the rain was seeking its quality time with me. The one court had agreed with me and now three managers decided they didn't. Cest la vie.

It's Not About You

2009-05-16T07:40:00.006-04:00

Little kids are notoriously demanding; Brendan is no different. At times, we'll be in the midst of grocery shopping or cooking dinner and he'll insist on going to the playground or his friend's house or wherever else he suddenly thinks of. At those times, I've knelt down to his level, looked him in the eyes and told him as kindly and calmly as I could, "Brendan, right now is not about you. We have to finish doing what we're doing right now." If we were cooking, for instance, I'd say "We need to finish cooking, then eat dinner, then do the things we need to do to get ready for bed and the day tomorrow."

The first few times I did this, Brendan was so taken aback that he stopped his demanding and went back to doing whatever he was doing before he decided that he needed to do something elese. Being the smart kid that he is, however, Brendan soon realized that there was something missing from our exchange and the next time time I gave him the spiel, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "that's fine, Mommy. But when will it be my turn? When does it get to be about me?"

By simply asking, Brendan turned the tables around and put the onus on me of finding a time just for him. So the conversation became, "after we cook dinner and eat, we'll go to the playground for 20 minutes, then we have to come back, take a bath, and brush our teeth. We'll only read one book today before bed because we're using that time to go to the park instead. Okay?" And, of course, "going to the park" could be anything, actually going to the park, the zoo, a play date with a friend, the pet store, etc.

The good thing about this is that Brendan has become conscious of the things that we do that are just for him and he appreciates it a little bit, instead of demanding more all the time.

Yesterday, I had an out-of-office meeting that ended early. I called Big Bren and asked him if he wanted to do something, just me and him, before the afternoon routine with the kids began. He responded: "I am at the DMV right now and then I have to go to Home Depot to get some things for the house. After that, the bus is going to drop off D and Brendan has to be picked up." In other words, "it's not about you right now." I fought the urge to whine, "well, when is going to be about me? When will it be my turn?" And had to smile as I hung up.

Noah's Ark

2009-05-13T13:15:00.004-04:00

There's a schoolmate of Brendan's whose parents always drop him off together in the morning and pick him up together. If there are activities at the school where parent volunteers are sought, they'll be there -- together.

Call me a jaded individual, but I find that to be a colossal waste of time. Big Bren and I subscribe to the “divide and conquer” school of parenting. You drop off; I pick up. You take him to karate; I’ll go get him. I’ll do the laundry; you go grocery shopping. I get the “family time” thing. We have breakfast, dinner and weekends as a family, but there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything in pairs.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T22:54:00.004-04:00

Today was a good day. I woke up and gave myself permission to do nothing. No laundry; no cleaning; no work. And, in honor of Mother's Day, Big Bren offered no resistance. I got my gift, went to brunch with my two favorite members of the male gender, came home and took a nap. What else could a mother ask for?

Let It Go

2009-04-30T10:30:00.004-04:00

My buddy Nycol sent this to me and I thought it was great (even though she sent as part of a chain e-mail -- tsk, tsk). It's attributed to T.D. Jakes:

There are people who can walk away from you. And hear me when I tell you this! When people walk away from you: let them walk. I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. I mean hang up the phone.

When people can walk away from you let them walk. Your destiny is never tied to anybody that left.

The Bible said that, "they came out from us that it might be made manifest that they were not for us. For had they been of us, no doubt they would have continued with us." [1 John 2:19]

People leave you because they are not joined to you. And if they are not joined to you, you can't make them stay. Let them go.

And it doesn't mean that they are a bad person it just means that their part in the story is over. And you've got to know when people's part in your story is over so that you don't keep trying to raise the dead. You've got to know when it's dead.

You've got to know when it's over. Let me tell you something. I've got the gift of good-bye. It's the tenth spiritual gift, I believe in good-bye. It's not that I'm hateful, it's that I'm faithful, and I know whatever God means for me to have He'll give it to me. And if it takes too much sweat I don't need it. Stop begging people to stay.

Let them go!!

If you are holding on to something that doesn't belong to you and was never intended for your life, then you need to...... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to past hurts and pain... LET IT GO!!!

If someone can't treat you right, love you back, and see your worth... LET IT GO!!!

If someone has angered you... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to some thoughts of evil and revenge... LET IT GO!!!

If you are involved in a wrong relationship or addiction... LET IT GO!!!

If you are holding on to a job that no longer meets your needs or talents... LET IT GO!!!

If you have a bad attitude... LET IT GO!!!

If you keep judging others to make yourself feel better... LET IT GO!!!

If you're stuck in the past and God is trying to take you to a new level in Him... LET IT GO!!!

If you are struggling with the healing of a broken relationship... LET IT GO!!!

If you keep trying to help someone who won't even try to help themselves... LET IT GO!!!

If you're feeling depressed and stressed... LET IT GO!!!

If there is a particular situation that you are so used to handling yourself and God is saying 'take your hands off of it,' then you need to... LET IT GO!!!

The Battle is the Lord's!

New Moon

2009-04-24T15:35:00.002-04:00

For any astrology fans out there, today is New Moon. And from what I hear from astrologer Anne Ortelee (anneortelee.com), it promises to be a doozy. Astrologers believe that certain times of the year (depending on lunar cycles and formation of stellar constellations) are more auspicious than others for starting new projects, new relationships, etc. Anne says: "[April 24th] is the most important New Moon of the year[,] so make sure to start something important to you. It MAY BE the most important New Moon of the next 8 years so REALLY make sure to start something important to you! Moons like this don't come around too often."

In Honduras, people plant new crops on the New Moon. They're not particularly astrology followers, but someone, somewhere noticed that seeds planted on a New Moon yielded more plentiful crops. Who knows if this is true, but it's funny how beliefs from all over the world seem to have a connective string ...

Anyway, whatever your beliefs, it can't hurt to put something in motion today.

All in a day's work

2009-04-19T15:42:00.004-04:00

Brendan and I were in the park today when a woman showed up with her six kids. She filled up almost the entire little park with her brood. There were teenagers, and tweens, and toddlers. She seemed to have had them in pairs; each child had a companion close in age.

The kids were loud -- all yelling "Mom! -- and competing for attention. Yet, this woman was composed, well put together and-- dare I say it? -- happy.

I mentally told myself that I had to step up my "mom" game. I chastised myself for my lack of patience and my intolerance for noise. And just as I was starting to envy this woman -- whom I was sure must be the front-runner for the Mother of the Year award -- I noticed that one her younger children was wearing a bathing suit. Just a bathing suit. It's April. And it's 63 degrees outside.

I may not have the patience of Ghandi and I may not have six kids, but on any given day, I can work up the energy to put pants on Brendan before we head out the door. Let me take back that statuette ....

Listening 101

2009-04-18T14:22:00.016-04:00

"Within every adversity lies the seed of opportunity."

People assume that this phrase refers to some huge adversity and phoenix-like rise from the ashes, like losing a job only to be offered a better, higher paying job, or breaking up with a significant other only to run into one's soulmate the next day. But I submit to you that this refers to any adversity, however small, that you may face -- from misplacing your keys to oversleeping when you have an appointment. There is a lesson to be learned even from the minutia of our lives, if only we learn to listen.

Today, Big Bren misplaced a new packet of Allen wrenches. The sky fell and the flowers wailed (I exaggerate, but only a smidgen). There was door slamming and some words I cannot repeat in a family blog. There were recriminations ("Did you move my Allen wrenches?? Why can't I ever find anything in this house????) and things cavalierly tossed out of their places (my laptop, thankfully in its case, was a victim) in an attempt to unearth the "lost" wrenches. The one thing that never came out of Big Bren's mouth was: "I should have put my wrenches in a place where I could find them. "

For me, life offers a myriad of opportunities for improvement on a daily basis. Like a kid, however, I often cover my ears and scream "la la la la la" while it's speaking. I don't want to see the reflection of my weaknesses and my faults in whatever I'm going through. I refuse to acknowledge that I have created unfavorable situations in my life and I most definitely do not want to hear that I -- and I alone -- have to find a way to resolve them. I prefer to think that someone will come along and find my wrenches, instead of realizing that once I change my slovenly ways, the wrenches will appear during the cleanup. Too often, we foist responsibility onto others for things we should be taking care of ourselves. We want someone else to not only keep track of our "stuff," but also to clean up the mess we've made when we go through our "stuff." No one is responsible for you. No one can make you happy. Or prosperous. Or joyful. Those things, and everything you're seeking, originate within you. Find the seed of opportunity within that seemingly adverse situation, plant it and see what grows.

Nadya Suleman can go pound salt

2009-04-15T15:41:00.003-04:00

Okay, fine, that was a bit harsh, but word on the street (and by "street," I mean the gossip rags) is that she's received $2,000,000 for a reality show.

Am I the only person who thinks this woman should be focusing on raising her many kids instead of trying to be a celebrity? The fact is, other than being absolutely self-centered and egotistical, what has this woman done that warrants a reality show? Since she apparently has a million nannies in place to care for her children (that website seeking donations must have really taken off), what exactly is the public expecting to see? And, in good conscience, should those premature babies be put through that circus for the sake of this woman’s ego and the public's morbid curiousity?

Here is what I propose: everyone boycotts not just this reality show, but also the network that has commissioned it. If this woman is at all savvy – and based on the way that she is working the media, I have to assume that she is – she has demanded her money up front. You see, I have no problem with her trying to find a way to feed her 14 children; what I do have a problem with is her exploiting her kids to do it. So, if she’s already gotten the money, more power to her. Seriously, boycott the show and the network. For once, let us put aside the rubber-necking and do the right thing. Since their mother is not going to do it, let’s do it for those 14 kids.

In the Event of Loss of Cabin Pressure ...

2009-04-12T22:13:00.029-04:00

This past weekend found me awash in a sea of disappointment.

My oldest sister indicated that she wanted to come to New York to visit for a week and, as always, I did all I could possibly do to make it happen for her. But once she got here, she spared no time at all to spend with me or Brendan. Sunday night found the poor kid struggling to keep his eyes open so he could spend some "quality time" with her before she left the State early Monday morning, only to conk out at 9:30 p.m., while my sister did not show up until 10:30.

My brother was also in town and, after promising to spend some time with me at my home, decided to go back home a day early. The week before, I'd invited my father over for a barbeque to celebrate his 69th birthday; he responded with such negativity to the invite, that I felt like I'd offered him a steaming plate of dung or something equally as appetizing.

This glorious week concluded with my having a run-in with my step-son (I felt like he'd disrespected me and called him on it); which escalated into an argument with Big Bren and with me being cast as the "Evil Stepmother."

For the past year, I've been on this path of betterment. I've succeeded in many ways and failed miserably in others. In my quest, however, I have been quick to blame myself for my struggling relationships, where others' apathy, self-centeredness or emotional immaturity and laziness should have taken equal billing. I've often sacrificed my self, my finances, my pride and my time to make others happy (perhaps in yet another misguided attempt to garner love). And, today, I find myself feeling victimized (can't you tell??).

The kicker is that you cannot ingratiate yourself to anyone. People either love you or they don't. They either consider you or they don't. They either want to spend time with you or they don't. And if you are so busy trying to be loved that you stop loving yourself, then despite all your "doing," and all your "offering" and all the "providing," everyone around you will only mirror that absence of love.

As I sat here Sunday night, I suddenly thought of that instruction on the plane where they tell you that in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, the oxygen masks will pop down; and when they do, you should put on your own mask before you help other people with theirs. Here I was, trying to save everyone, while I was nearly passed out from lack of oxygen. (When my sister finally showed up with her church "sisters" in tow, they decided to pray at the house before hitting the road. Tellingly, the Bible passage that one of the sisters chose for the occasion had a woman lamenting to God that she'd been forced to toil at everyone else's vineyard, leaving her own grapes to whither and die.) Surely, if I stop trying to be all things to all people, I can be "Mirna" for me. And at the end of the day -- or, in this case, week -- all I have left is me.

Sign on the dotted line

2009-04-01T22:10:00.003-04:00

It’s funny how much like a business contract marriage is. Actually, that was all the rage a few years ago – entering into a written agreement with your future spouse as to the “terms” of your union. For instance, the person who didn’t mind cooking would offer to cook in exchange for not having to clean up afterward. The one who was more financially savvy would agree to pay the bills, as long as the other partner agreed to take out the trash on garbage day, and so on.

When I first heard about these written agreements, I wrinkled my nose in distaste. What is the use of being married, I thought, if everything is a quid pro quo? Isn’t the purpose of marriage to not only share the good and the bad, but to grow together? How can you grow if everything is etched in stone?

Almost 6 years in, I now know that whether you write the terms down or not, you are in a binding agreement. And the people who sit down and say, “this is what I want; this is what I need; and this is what I am willing to give and do” are better off in the long run. And, quite frankly, it is often the little things that begin to grate on your nerves after a while. It's the socks on the floor, the unwashed dishes and the unloaded dishwasher. It can be snoring or the way someone snorts when s/he laughs. What personally bothers me is the refrain: "I can't read minds!" Often said with equal parts frustration and derision. You don't need to be a mind-reader to know that dirty laundry will not wash, fold and/or put itself away. You don't need a ESP degree to know that an empty refrigerator means it's time to go grocery shopping!

On a whole, though, I am glad that our issues are relatively minor because the “terms” aren’t just about chores or who is going to pick up the kids from school; they are about how you treat yourself and about how you allow or expect others to treat you. For instance, I have family members whose partners routinely cheat on them. They turn a blind eye or – if confronted with the truth – show anger for a week or a month and then decide to “work things out.” Except their version of "working things out" is simply to ignore the problem; thereby allowing the partner to do it again and again. There’s one woman whose significant other has cheated on her at least 5 times – the last time was in her own bed. By not taking action the first time, she signed the contract conceding that he could do it the second, third, fourth and fifth time. Short of ripping that contract up and declaring a breach, there is no way to get out of it.

Then there are those for whom “divorce is not an option.” I am as much of a romantic as the next person, but that is like walking into a car dealership and saying, “I am going to buy a car from you today no matter how you treat me, or how much you inflate the cost of the car, or even if you try to sell me a lemon.” You can only imagine how well that salesman is going to treat you and how much effort he is going to put into that transaction – not very well and not very much. That's not to say that divorce should be taken lightly -- it shouldn't be. My "deal breakers" are but two things: infidelity and domestic violence. I'll work on everything else; but I'll be damned if I am going to lay down and be a doormat for anybody.

There are days in my marriage when I am blissfully happy and days that end with me fuming, “I didn’t sign up for this crap.” I used to think that I had no power; that I could only go along until I got to the point where I either learned to cope or got so fed up that I moved on. I have learned, though, that marriage can be like a career that you've put a lot of time and effort into – sometimes it’s frustrating, but most times it’s fulfilling. And, like a job, sometimes you have to stop and ask, “Am I being treated fairly? Am I getting equal value for what I am putting in?” If the answer is “no,” you have to be willing to speak up and change the terms of that contract. No one can do it but you. I’ve found that most people are always willing to renegotiate.

Attitude of Gratitude

2009-03-20T10:04:00.002-04:00

“Many people who order their lives rightly in all other ways, are kept in poverty by their lack of gratitude.” Wallace D. Wattles, The Science of Getting Rich.

It is easy to get so mired in the day-to-day that we forget to be grateful for what we have. Today, I promised myself that I would be thankful for everything that I could think to be thankful for. The day did not disappoint. Getting in my car, I could not help but be grateful for its existence; and even more grateful that it has not given me a moment’s trouble since I got it last year. Going to work, I was grateful for the clear roads; no traffic today. That made it easy to appreciate the cleanliness of the roadways. Which got me going on a gratitude tangent – how ever does the government keep the foliage on the side of the highways neat and trimmed and the grounds so clean? More gratitude for that. Enjoying the scenic Saw Mill Parkway, I thanked God for my sight. I listened to a book on CD and had to give the Woman Above a “big-up” for my hearing and the fact that I could comprehend it. I struggled up the hill going up to my office while lugging my big work bag; that turned into the opportunity to be grateful for the fact that I could walk.

At my desk, I observed the piles of papers and felt inclined to grumble; instead I closed my eyes and thought of the millions of people who are unemployed in this country right now. I projected a silent “thanks” and went to work.

I started filling out the paperwork for Brendan’s summer camp and felt my stomach churn when I saw the price. Then I thought about my little guy and thanked God for lending him to me in this lifetime.

Even typing this post, I had to inwardly thank my parents for sacrificing in order to send me to a high school that taught typing and other useful skills.

Every where I turned today, there was a choice to be made: complain or feel good. Today, I choose to feel good.

How Do Kids Learn These Things?

2009-03-16T13:44:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, I gave Brendan a quarter to buy a gumball from the machine at the car wash. It was one of the "new" quarters with the State-specific designs on the back. Yes, they've been around for years, but they still look new to me.

Brendan flipped it over and immediately said what I was thinking: "A quarter just doesn't look like a quarter without an eagle on the back."

Write it Down, Make it Happen

2009-03-14T19:47:00.008-04:00

I just finished reading a book by Henriette Anne Klauser titled Write It Down, Make It Happen. The title says it all; if you write down your dreams and goals, they will come true. It seems a bit simplistic, but it works. I've discovered journals from years ago where I've written about my aspirations and have been surprised by how many of them actually came true. There is one catch, though (isn't there always?) -- those things that you have the least attachment to will likely come true before those that are most important to you. Let me put it this way, writing down your hopes, dreams and goals is a little like planting a vegetable. You need to dig a hole, drop in the seeds, water it every day, but detach from the result. If you dig up the seeds every day to see if they're growing, they're not going to grow. Why not? Because you're hampering their growth. But if you step back, in a few weeks, some green leaves will break through the ground and a few weeks after that, you'll have a full grown plant.

When I was 28 years old, I was desperate to meet my "soul mate" and get married. I am from Honduras and according to my family, at 28, I was way past my expiration date. My sisters, including my younger one, had all married by no later than 25 (and even that had been considered "late"). For me, it wasn't so much the marriage that I wanted, it was a child. I wanted to be a "young" mommy and at that point, it just wasn't happening. In the heat of that desperation, I wrote a journal entry where I said that if I was not married by age 32, I would have a child by myself. I was a professional woman; I could raise a child as a single mother.

By the time I turned 32, I had left the practice of law and was working at a job that was law-related but not as stressful. I had just purchased a co-op apartment in beautiful Riverdale. I'd recently broken up with Big Bren and was dipping my toe back into the dating scene. One day, Big Bren called and we decided to hang out. As they say in campy novels, "one thing led to another," and we ended up having sex again. We agreed that we weren't getting back together and went back to our separate lives. About 4 days later, I had a dream where I was standing in front of a mirror, horrified, because I had found a gray hair. In the dream, I was bemoaning the fact that I was 32. While still in the dream state, I tore my eyes from the offending gray hair and noticed that I was pregnant! I woke up in cold sweat. The journal entry came rushing back to me. "No, no, no! Please, God, no! I was just kidding. I was a stupid child back then. I do NOT want to be pregnant! I CANNOT be pregnant!" (I figured if I spoke to God in exclamation points, She would have no choice but to listen.) I went on: "What will my mother say?? She's going to kill me! What will I tell the people at work?" I continued to bemoan my fate until I feel back asleep.

When I woke up, it all seemed like a bad dream. I felt no different, so I decided to will myself back to non-pregnancy. For weeks, my body cooperated. I had no morning sickness; in fact, I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. A few weeks later, I decided to test the Fates and took a pregnancy test and there they were, the ominous two lines.

The rest of the story: my mother didn't kill me, although she came close; I was no longer the old maid in the family (just the harlot); I married Big Bren; and the best part -- I had my Brendan.

When I picked up the book, it was with the intent to make all these great things happen: publish my book, get out of the rat race, etc. But I also did so with desperation (again!) and attachment to the end result. I am convinced that the reason I got pregnant at that time was because, by writing it down, I set my intention in stone; and, most importantly, allowed it happen without attachment to the result. At the time I made that journal entry, there was nothing more I could do about it -- it was 4 years in the future! So I let it be. Yes, your words have power -- they are coming from the deepest part of you and the part that is connected to your higher source. But they should come from a place of peace and surrender.

Happy writing!!

The Road Less Traveled

2009-03-13T14:13:00.003-04:00

A few months ago, Big Bren came to me and asked whether his other son -- who is now 10 -- could move in with us. In Stepmom Diaries (below), I've written how difficult I find it at times to deal with his children. And that was just on weekends. With those few words from my husband, I was suddenly standing on a precipice. As Victorian as it sounds, I literally took to my bed. And stayed there for a few days.

I truly, truly did not know what to do. If I said "no," hubby would be angry and disappointed. But if I said "yes," I would feel as if I had let myself down. I thought about all the work involved: the cooking, the shuttling to/from school and other activities, the laundry, the homework. I was getting a headache just thinking about it. I burrowed into the sheets a little more. When I was no longer sleepy, I took a sleeping pill. I didn't want to face the world; and I most definitely did not want to make a decision.

I let it drag on for a few days. In the meantime, there were endless telephone calls to Big Bren from the child's mother (a.k.a The Psycho). He would hang up with her and the phone would ring again -- his son this time. Mother and child were not getting along. The son was getting increasingly disrespectful. He was doing poorly in school and the Psycho was not equipped to deal with it.

I spoke to my most trusted advisors and the response was unanimous: "Do not let that crazy woman's child into your home full-time." My decision had seemingly been made. I had a peaceful night's sleep for the first time since Big Bren broached the topic.

The next morning, I went to my child's room to wake him up and get him ready for school. He was asleep in his bed, with his bottom up in the air. I smiled at the perfect picture of him in his room. He had his toys in one corner, a rocking horse in another, and his little Thomas the Train bed. And I realized how lucky he was to have his own space, a peaceful home and two parents who adored him. It suddenly dawned on me that was all Big Bren was trying to provide for his other son. The child was thin from not eating many balanced meals (candy and junk food abounded in his mother's home and she simply is not someone who believes in balance, structure or effective discipline). He had a never-ending "cold" or "allergy" that lasted year-round. He had a nervous cough that was seemingly triggered by the cold/allergy, but which did not occur when he was asleep. By all accounts, a true cough did not cease upon sleeping. From what I understood, he still slept in his mother's bed and, when he was at our house and had to sleep alone, always slept with all the lights on. Despite his mother's receipt of child support, all his clothes were ragged and short and all his shoes tight. Whenever we took him anywhere, we ended up buying him new clothes. He had no pajamas and his underwear was stained. No mother in her right mind wants to see her child do poorly, so no doubt, despite her issues, the Psycho was trying her best. Maybe what she needed was a little help.

After I got to work that day, I called Big Bren and told him that I could live with it if he decided to have his son move in. (Not the most enthusiastic of endorsements, but the only one I could muster at the time.)

It has been five months since he moved in. As a self-admitted introvert, I find it uncomfortable to have many people within my personal sphere, so I am probably not the best stepmother there is to have and every fear I had about the amount of work it would take has proven true. The "crazy woman" part proved prophetic as well (because this is a "feel good" post, I won't delve into her antics.) What I can report is that the child is healthy now. No cough; no cold; not even a sniffle. Every evening, he eats all his dinner and sometimes asks for seconds. He takes healthy snacks to school. When he moved in, Big Bren bought him a new wardrobe that was age-appropriate and fit properly. He got shoes and winter wear as needed. And his face lights up when goes to his very own room -- which is decorated as a sports fan's dream, with a basketball hoop, sports figures, balls and memorabilia plastered all over the walls. He joined Cub Scouts and won a trophy for some event. He is even excelling in school now.

For Big Bren's and the child's sake, I am glad I kicked off the covers and decided to take the road less traveled.

Facing Down the Beast

2009-03-05T22:55:00.004-05:00

Last summer, with pretty much no forewarning and absolutely no preparation, one of my sisters picked up her two children and moved half-way across the country. She and her husband scraped together their combined savings and put it as a down payment on a house. They had nothing left over for moving expenses, so they left everything behind. They simply got in their car, stuffed as many clothes as would fit in the trunk and started driving. Upon arrival, they had no money for furniture, so they’re sleeping, eating and living on the floor of their brand new home.

I’ve written before about how my siblings and I were raised. My parents did – and still do – worship money. These are people who will forgo basic necessities in order to save money. Because my parents were so devout to the Almighty Dollar, it stands to reason that my siblings and I turned out to be money pagans. We do not worship at the altar of timely bill payment. We do not light candles to the Credit Score god. Budget? We spit on you. It is something that we all have in common and which causes my parents an endless amount of stress.

So when my sister moved to another state with no money, no savings, no job prospects and no interest in getting a job, my poor parents almost had synchronized heart attacks. My mother lost sleep; my father went ballistic; one of my other sisters denounced her as “irresponsible”; and I was just in shock.

Let me say that my sister is no lay-about. She has been working non-stop since she was 16 years old. She has a bachelor’s degree and 2 masters in Education from NYU; she has just completed another degree in Theology. For 20 of the 21 years of her marriage, she was the primary breadwinner. Her husband would work for 4 to 6 months and “take a break” – all while she slaved to keep the kids’ tuition paid, the rent out of arrears and food on the table. When she couldn’t do it alone, the rest us of pitched in to help (be it by taking the kids for the weekend or buying them school clothes). For her to simply say “I refuse to do this anymore; let the chips fall where they may,” was huge.

While this may seem like the perfect recipe for disaster, I am beginning to see the method in her madness. By being Superwoman, she infantilized her husband and spoiled her kids. None of them had any consideration for her or any appreciation for what she provided. Because the chips are certainly falling – everywhere, I might add – her husband has had to break his “4 months of work and 8 months of vacation” habit. Her eldest child has had to get a job. Her youngest must make do without the $150 sneakers he had grown accustomed to. In the meantime, my sister attends to the home and rejects job offers; all while continuing to sleep on the floor (“it’s good for the back,” she quips) and eat on the floor (“every day is a picnic,” she chirped the last time I spoke with her).

The experience is certainly teaching her family a valuable lesson, but the biggest lesson may be for my sister, herself, whether she realizes it or not. You see, in my parents’ eyes, this is the absolute worst thing that could happen to a person – to be broke and have no immediate monetary prospects. Yet my sister is facing the financial beast head on and not backing down. She is unabashed in her self-imposed poverty and has weathered the economic storm without seeking shelter under anyone else’s pecuniary umbrella. Most importantly, my sister has shown us that even stripped of all material things, she is still, well, her. She didn’t die when her last paycheck was used up. She didn’t turn into dust when the last dollar in her savings account was depleted. And by experiencing true scarcity, my sister will never again succumb to the scarcity mentality my family falls prey to. She has – albeit in the most excruciating way possible – shed the family karma that continues to plague the rest of us. It is exhibiting true courage in the face of a beast.

My sister is now 8 months into her sojourn into the belly of the money beast. I don’t know when she will return; but it will be cause for celebration when she does.

Verbal Constipation

2009-02-27T22:13:00.004-05:00

The organization that Big Bren works for gives him these cards at the beginning of every year. They are affinity cards – they indicate that you are related in some way to a member of the organization. And as one credit card company would say, “membership has its privileges.” The most hardened member of the organization becomes helpful once you show them the card. Because the cards are useful, people have taken to stealing them or trying to buy them on E-bay, so Big Bren personalizes the ones he gives out by writing – with permanent marker – the intended recipient’s name on the top and his name, title and telephone number on the bottom.

This year, I eagerly awaited the receipt of my card. Come the end of January, however, Big Bren had still not given them out. One day, I came across the stack in our guest bedroom. Perhaps it was just inherent nosiness, but I looked through the stack to see who – other than moi – would be benefiting from use of the card. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.

No, it wasn’t a mistress (if it had been, I’d be locked up somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this post); rather, I noticed that on each and every card to various family members, in addition to the name and his information, Big Bren had written a phrase or a saying. One said “Be safe.” Another, “I love you.” Yet another, “Take care.” Some were a casual “Love ya.” And on mine: nothing.

The blank space between the “To my wife, Mirna,” and his information at the bottom taunted me.

There are people who inspire conversation. My mother is such a person. She greets perfect strangers with a smile and takes her leave with a “Bye, Papi,” or “See you later, Love.” She meets someone and within an hour, they have told her their whole life story; they’re chatting like old friends. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I can meet someone multiple times and not even make small talk about the weather. It’s not meanness on my part or even a lack of social grace; when necessary, I converse, and under the right circumstances, I am a veritable chatterbox. But, most times, I am content to be silent.

So I really should not have been surprised by the “silence” on the card. Yet, I was indeed surprised. That card, in all its simplicity, lacked more than words; it lacked heart and emotion. By the time I got the card in hand, it had been edited to include a large "I [heart] you" in the middle. Still, where my mother causes verbal diarrhea, I apparently produce verbal constipation (the words eventually come out, but not without some strain).

I am Maid

2009-02-20T10:51:00.003-05:00

I happened to be at my parents’ home one day this past week during dinner time. Although I usually eat when I visit my parents, I am never actually there when it is time for my father to dine. I had forgotten the intricate ritual that goes into “serving” him his dinner.

Initially, my father doesn’t eat a simple meal like most people; his meals have parts and sub-parts. There’s the meat, and rice, and boiled green banana or sweet plantains (boiled or fried), and there’s salad. Everything is served all at once. He sits down and my mother runs around the kitchen getting everything together. She brings the food first, then he’ll bellow: “cubiertos!” She’ll put down whatever she’s doing and hurry to get utensils for him. Then he’ll say: “limon!” and she’ll stop whatever she’s doing again and fetch him a lemon wedge. When he’s satisfied with what’s in front of him, he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles salt generously on his food – without tasting it first. When he’s just about done, he’ll say loudly for my mother to hear, wherever she may be in the house, “I could drink some soda now!” And she’ll come scurrying and open the refrigerator – which is located right next to him in the eat-in kitchen, by the way – get him a can of soda, open it and put it in front of him.

When he’s completely done, he will wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin that she placed there for him, and get up – leaving the plate with the scraps on the table. He will then go watch the news while reclining in his chair. My mother takes the plate from the table and does the dishes. Only then, when she’s done with her “wifely duties” can my mother relax enough to sit down and eat.

This is nothing new for me, of course. Until I moved out at 22, I was one of the women scurrying about like frightened slaves trying to anticipate my father’s every need. But until I saw this again the other day, I had relegated it to the back of my mind. And I have to say that it bothered the crap out of me. I recall the years of servitude; never having a free moment, because you could be called to “duty” at any moment by a whistle (yes, my father would whistle for us when he needed something). It could be something as simple as passing him the remote (because it was too strenuous for him to reach over the 11 inches to get it) or something as disgusting as clipping his toenails or putting medicine on his corns. As a fully grown woman with my own family now, I don’t understand why mother accustomed him to being treated that way, so that now in their twilight years, she continues to be a servant when she should be the one being waited on. I know it’s too late for them; neither one of them is going to change, but the whole thing still leaves a bad, bitter taste in my mouth.

Under Construction

2009-02-10T11:58:00.007-05:00

I’ve written before how most women juggle multiple balls – relationship, children, work, self, friendships – at any given time. I’ve admitted to dropping one or more of the balls, but that the most dropped ball is “self.” I often get caught up in trying to take care of everyone and lose sight of me. Now, I’ve learned that I’ve also dropped the “friendships” ball and it is hidden somewhere behind the sofa so that I may not be able to retrieve it again!

I e-mailed two good friends of mine yesterday – I’ve known both women for 8 years now – with the subject line “I feel abandoned.” These are ladies with whom – up until a few weeks ago – I would engage in a three-way e-mail communication several times a day, just sharing random thoughts. One of them did not respond to the e-mail; the other sent me a long response basically stating that they had not abandoned me, I had been so involved in my own life that I had pulled away from them.

At first I felt offended; but I’m wise enough (ha!) to know that when you hear a truth, your ego will often rise up with the “oh, no, she didn’t!” reaction in order to divert your attention from the truth. So, I removed my fingers from the keyboard, before I could respond in a way that would do lasting damage.

Then, as the icing on the cake, I sent an e-mail to another friend – this one I’ve known for 25 years – about Brendan’s birthday party and got an e-mail back saying that she would love to come, but she was having a party for her daughter the same day. But she didn’t invite me and hadn’t even mentioned it until I brought up Brendan’s party.

Here I was, patting myself on the back because I had managed – since September – to get up on time, pack my child’s snack for school and have him there on time (most days, anyway – I’m not perfect, you know); when, in fact, my friendships were collapsing around me. Today, I had to face the unsavory truth that I have not been a good friend. I have not e-mailed anyone in a while; I don't call to check up on my friends; and I don't remember the last time I sent a birthday or Christmas card. The sad part is that not only have I not been a good friend to the ladies who have held me together when I was falling apart (one of them even got on a plane with me to chase my then boyfriend down on vacation because I thought he was cheating on me), but I just haven’t been good to myself lately. I really have been engrossed with the minutia of everyday life. Truth be told, I am tired of it. I am tired of the lunches, and the laundry, and the cooking, and the cleaning. I feel like I’m on one of those wheels that the hamsters exercise on. I realize that the reason I feel like this is because I have no other life! I know that if I saw a movie with a friend now and then; or met up with someone for a manicure and pedicure; or for a chat and a cup of coffee; or even just keeping up my e-mail correspondence, I wouldn’t feel so bored and isolated.

I honestly don’t believe that life is meant to be depressing or boring. So, going forward, I intend to be a better friend. I truly hope that the “friendships” ball is retrievable. And I hope that my friends can understand that their girl is not a finished product – I am the first to admit that I am “under construction.”

"You Can't Play 'Cause You Have Different Skin"

2009-02-03T21:36:00.002-05:00

Brendan has been obsessing about color lately. Last week, he said he no longer wanted to be brown. When I asked him what color he wanted to be, he paused, then threw his arms around me and said "I love you very much, Mommy." Then, he hurried away before I could ask him any more questions.

A few days later, he said that he wished I wasn't brown. I told him that I loved being brown, but given a choice, what color would he make me? Another pause, then he answered that he wished I was the same color as his cousin Joey's mommy -- who is also brown. I was puzzled, but before I could question him any more, he hurried away again.

Then, on Sunday, the truth finally reared its head: in recess recently, four boys that he looks up to and used to play with all the time told him that he couldn't play with them anymore, because he had "different skin." He tried to tell the story nonchalantly, as if he couldn't care less whether those boys played with him or not, but I could see the pain in his eyes. It was like I had been stabbed in the chest.

Big Bren and I have gone out of our way to provide a multicultural environment for Brendan. He watches multicultural programs; his "people" toys are all different nationalities; even the angel on our Christmas tree was of color. What we didn't realize was that Brendan would not -- and could not -- grow up in that bubble. We assumed, I guess, that other parents would be raising their children the same way.

I wonder whether racism occurs through nature or nurture. Is it in our DNA to discriminate against those who do not look like us or are we raised to do so? The fact that those boys used that terminology -- different skin -- makes me think that their parents are not necessarily racists. If so, they would have used other, not so benign, words. Just the same, if the parents surround themselves and their children with people who all look the same, it's no wonder the kids are so intolerant of change.

Big Bren, who, while not brown, feels strongly about having a child who feels comfortable in his skin, whatever color that may be, marched to the school the very next day and told the Head of School about Brendan's experience. The point was not to get those boys in trouble, but to steer them in the direction of acceptance of others. On our end, we will not do anything differently. We are already teaching Brendan not just tolerance, but acceptance, of cultural differences. And with our wonderfully multi-hued family, he gets to do that every day.

The Most Expensive Thing I've Ever Had ...

2009-01-29T13:55:00.002-05:00

... is Brendan.

Kids are frigging expensive. There’s tuition and afterschool and clothing and entertainment and Christmas gifts and birthday gifts and birthday parties. Geez!

Big Bren made fun of me the other day because I bought some eye shadow at the dollar store. I thought about making my usual trip to the Mac store, but when I thought about the amount of gas I would spend to get there, plus the $18 for the actual eye shadow, I decided to go down the hill to the dollar store and called it a day. The damn thing probably contains lead and might dry out my eye lids, but what can I say? I’ve become “frugal” in my old age.

The Unloveable

2009-01-27T11:25:00.005-05:00

For most of my life, I have not felt loved. Worse, I have not felt love-able. My parents were neither affectionate nor effusive. They never said “I love you.” They never hugged us or kissed us. They didn’t tuck us into bed at night or say “I’m proud of you” if we did anything noteworthy. By the time I was seven, my mother cut off any physical contact with my father, like kisses goodnight or sitting on his lap, because she had seen too many instances of incest in the Honduran community and she wanted to remove any “temptation.” My mom was also of the opinion that a child would be “spoiled” if showered with attention; my dad left all the child-rearing decisions – insofar as it related to us girls – to my mother.

On one hand, it was good that my mother ruled with an iron fist, because my sisters and I avoided the pitfalls that surrounded us in the projects where we lived. All around us, the girls were dropping out of school and getting pregnant. And while we probably would’ve have sought out the attentions of young men to fill the void of love we felt at home, my mother timed our commute to and from school, was on good terms with a welfare mother on our floor (who watched everything we did and if anyone entered the apartment while my mother wasn’t there) and had a voice-activated recorder on the phone in her locked room that taped all conversations on our telephone line. Simply put, we had no opportunity to become sluts.

Growing up that way comes at a price. For many years, I harbored a deep-rooted belief that no one loved me and was convinced that no one could love me. I felt unworthy and ugly. I mean, if no one in my early life had – and who better to love you than your mother, your father, your family – then why would anyone in my later life? As a result, I always felt that any man I was with had an ulterior motive for wanting to be with me. The first time that I have felt true love – given and received – was when I had Brendan.

In recent months, I began feeling a sense of stagnation. Life was not bad, but not great. The fact is that I feel a yearning, a longing for something, but the something is fuzzy, not clear. I feel like there is more to be done, but I’m coming up against an unbreachable wall that will not allow me to do it – whatever “it” is. I knew that there was something I was meant to learn, something I was meant to understand once and for all. Whenever I get into these depressive moods, I try to pray or meditate them away. And so it was that I bumped into Michael Bernard Beckwith’s “Life Visioning Program” on CD. I won’t describe the whole program here, but it entails asking the “right” questions for personal growth. He recommends not asking “why” questions (those are my personal favorites: Why me? Why now? Why? Why?), but “what” and “how” questions. What must I become in order to manifest my vision? How must I grow? What must I change about me? What is it that I need to let go of? Once you ask the question, you should mediate on them and let the Universe, your subconscious, God, or whatever you want to label it, will give you the answers.

I asked the questions and … nothing happened. (Did you expect the skies to part and God to give me the answer??) I was truly frustrated. I copied the discs onto my I-pod and sent the originals to my sister, thinking that perhaps, she’d get better use out of the program. Maybe I had done it wrong.

That night, as I tucked Brendan into bed, I kissed his forehead and said, “que sueñes con los angelitos, Hijo” -- “Dream with the little angels, my son.” And I stopped. That was odd. I never say that phrase to Brendan. I almost always say “goodnight, Baby. I love you.” But I remembered the phrase well – when my mother wasn’t working nights, she would be in the living room watching her telenovelas, my siblings and I would line up at the living room door to say goodnight. As we kissed her cheek, she would say to each of us, “que sueñes con los angelitos negros” – “dream with the little brown angels.” Odd, indeed, that I would say that phrase.

A few days later, I was going to a seminar when the answers struck me. Seemingly out of the blue. Memories came flooding into my brain. There was my older cousin, Adora, caring for me when my parents came to the States. She was carrying me on her hip, so the hot sand would not hurt my bare feet in Honduras. My head lay sleepily on her shoulder as she carried me. She was smiling and planting feather-light kisses on my forehead as she walked. There was my oldest sister, Elsa, playing "school" with me in our bedroom in the projects. She was teaching me English words. There I was, feverish and coughing, during a bad winter soon after we’d moved to the South Bronx; and there Elsa was again, rubbing Vicks into my bony chest to ease the cough, then leaning me against her and covering me up with sheets. Elsa yet again, at the book fair at our school; my mother hadn’t given us enough money to each buy a book, but Elsa had found me and was handing over her few coins so that I, at least, would get something I wanted. I saw me at around 8 years old waking in the middle of night with a nightmare and having Elsa, who was only 5 years older than me, rub my brow until I fell asleep again. Now, it was my brother, Arles, holding me in his arms, shielding me from our mother; she was trying to get at me because I had not ironed my uniform jumper properly and we were going to be late for school. She was screaming and frustrated; she pounded furiously on Arles’s back and arms, but he would not let her get to me. Even my mother made some positive appearances; she had taken time off from her day job to take me to the dermatologist – in times of stress I get severe bouts of seborrheic dermatitis. My mom again, getting up early to braid our hair before school, even though she’d worked at her night job and must have been tired. And last, my dad, making the car “dance” to music by stepping on and releasing the brakes, so my siblings and I could laugh; taking us to the movies to see the Mexican actor “Cantinflas” in his latest comedic escapades while my mother worked; and driving two hours to the beaches of Long Island each Sunday during the summer so we could see something other than projects and crackheads.

Then the inner knowing came: I had been loved all along. Perhaps I hadn’t known it, but I had been loved. Then the same inner voice implored me to look at my life in recent years. How my mother and my sisters had driven to Buffalo to help me move from one apartment to another. How, after I had carbon monoxide poisoning and was afraid to sleep, Elsa -- who was the working mother of two young boys at the time -- stayed up the whole night watching me to make sure that I would wake up. The voice said to see my mother in her perpetual penance: cooking my favorite meals, calling to see how I am doing all the time, saying “I love you” to my son. To notice how my husband has lived up to his vows of in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer. And all my friends who care for me for no reason other than they care about me. And I felt a sense of peace. A sense of belonging unlike anything I had felt before. And I knew – I know – that everything will be okay. That I will do whatever it is that I am meant to do.

Change has Come

2009-01-20T22:10:00.003-05:00

Today, my co-workers and I gathered around an archaic television set in our conference room and watched Barack Obama become the 44th president of the United States of America. It was totally awesome (in the original meaning of the word -- not the way teeny boppers and my almost-5-year-old use it). I was a huge goosebump for the entire duration of the ceremony and his speech. Standing before the country was the epitome of the American Dream. He is what my mother always said people of color could be. He is what Dr. Martin Luther King foresaw when he said that one day Black people would be judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Today, I was truly proud to be a person of color and an American.

Behind the Curtain

2009-01-14T21:40:00.005-05:00

I think The Wizard of Oz is one of the best books ever written. Unlike most people, however, I don’t think the best parts are those that come after Dorothy discovers that the Wizard is a sham. Once she opens the curtain and exposes the balding little man working strings and levers to make the “magic” happen, it is not the beginning of an adventure, but the beginning of the end. At that point, she loses hope. There will be no wizard who will save her; no white knight. Then and there she knows that she’s going to have to save her damn self. The winged monkeys and the wicked witch are just distractions. At the end, it’s just a girl and her shoes.

I started thinking about The Wizard of Oz the other day after a conversation with Big Bren. Brendan had gone to bed and we were laying about, just killing time. I was on our bed, in my flannel pajamas, doing what I always do in the evening before bed – reading the gossip rags on line. Suddenly, the conversation turned to how I had been 10 years ago, when Big Bren and I first met. Smiling, he said, “I like you better now. You’re more real. I’ve made you into a woman; you know, a wife.” For a minute, my blood ran cold. Not that I don’t like being a mom and a wife; I most definitely do. But I feel like I had to kill my inner wizard to become that.

In some sense, Big Bren is right. When we met, I was a completely different person. I would work at the firm until late in the evening, then go hang out with my co-workers at some posh restaurant or bar. All my clothes were designer and I thought nothing of spending $1,000 on a handbag. I had a personal trainer at the local gym, and a standing appointment on Tuesdays with a Russian aesthetician named Anya, who gave me a mani and pedi and made sure that my various parts were plucked and/or waxed to my satisfaction. I had a closet full of lingerie and I could not walk out of my apartment in the morning if my bra and panties did not match. What can I say, I was a bit of a pretentious twit. But that was my curtain; everything that anyone saw was simply the projection -- the show -- that I was putting on. None of it was real.

I don’t know when my wizard died (let’s face it, that old me ain’t making a comeback). A piece of her died when I got carbon monoxide poisoning in the Murray Hill apartment that I rented for more money than I could reasonably afford, because I convinced myself that I just had to live in Manhattan. I was removed unconscious from that apartment in my fabulous Victoria’s Secret underwear.

Maybe she died when I started suffering stress attacks after the carbon monoxide incident and I couldn’t sleep for fear that I wouldn’t wake up. It’s hard to think about matching underwear when you’re falling apart psychologically.

No, I don’t know how or when it happened. Big Bren did not ride in on big white horse to rescue me. There was no knight in shining armor. We just took one step at a time. It feels like I just woke up one day, wearing no make-up, with unshaved and unwaxed body parts, stuffed into flannel pajamas. It wasn’t something that I planned or even wanted. And, yet, it is more real to me than anything I have ever lived before. When my little guy rains kisses on my face, it’s worth more than a million Gucci bags. When I put my head on my husband’s chest at night, he doesn’t care that I haven’t had a manicure in a month.

Sometimes, when “real” life threatens to overwhelm me, I wish I could click my heels three times and go back to that life – it seems so easy, so glamorous, in comparison to my reality today. But I know, as Dorothy came to learn, that there really is no place like home. Right now, there may be more dish-washing than Broadway plays and more laundry than pomegranate martinis, but, at the end of the day, it is the place that I call home.

What Donuts Do

2009-01-10T23:05:00.001-05:00

Brendan and I were running errands today when we passed by the local Dunkin Donuts and Brendan asked if he could have a donut. While I’m not a big proponent of giving kids what amounts to pretty much unadulterated sugar, I felt like having a little something sweet myself, so to Dunkin Donuts we went. Brendan wanted a powdered donut; I got him 3 powdered donut munchkins and some hot chocolate and we got back in the car.

I focused on driving and totally forgot about Brendan and his donuts until I snuck a peak in the rear-view mirror to see what he was up to. I almost drove off the road when I saw that my child, from head to toe, the booster seat and the backseat immediately surrounding him were covered in white powdered sugar.

My eyebrows came together in a frown. At the next stop light, I turned around and said, “Brendan, look at the mess you’ve made back there.” He looked down at himself and his chair and over at the backseat, then shrugging slightly, he said “But, Mommy, that’s what donuts do!” Despite myself, I had to laugh. He was absolutely right, powdered donuts will no doubt create a mushroom cloud of sugar and little boys will undoubtedly make a mess.

The Kindness of a Stranger

2009-01-07T16:37:00.004-05:00

I work in the legal department of a large insurance company. Part of my job is to provide legal support and training to claims folk across the great State of New York. It was in that capacity that, not too long ago, I got summoned to Syracuse. I started driving from downstate New York in reasonably balmy 40-something degree weather and clear skies. I made it up to Syracuse without incident, got something to eat and settled into my hotel room for the night.

When I woke up the next morning and looked out the window, I thought I was still dreaming; the world was blanketed in snow. Not just a dusting, but several inches worth. I’m not an idiot, I know it’s Winter in New York; but I had checked the weather and no snow had been in the forecast. As I looked at my buried rental car, a sense of despair overcame me. I had no scraper, no brush, no shovel, absolutely nothing. I glanced down at my flats and trench coat and just knew it was going to be a long, cold, miserable time before I unearthed that car.

I walked gingerly across the parking lot, snow filling my shoes with every step. And with every snow-filled step, my mood got darker and darker. I finally made it to the car; I used my gloves and a credit card to clear off the frozen snow on the windshield where my eyes would be. Still, I couldn’t hope to drive like that – there’d be too many blind spots. I settled into the warming car to think. What to do? What to do?

Then, suddenly, the ice and snow was being cleared away from my windshield! Then, the side and rear windows. I rolled down my window to speak with the child of God who had decided to perform a random act of kindness for a perfect stranger that morning. I found out that he worked at the Hampton Inn where I had stayed that night and was getting off the night shift. He had seen me shuffle across the parking lot in my inappropriate attire and had realized that I would never be able to clear my car, and so, he had come out to help. I thanked him profusely aloud, and silently heaped blessings upon him. He just shrugged, and with the car now road-ready, he trudged back into the hotel to complete his shift.

I never asked his name, nor is it likely that he will ever come across this blog. But if he ever does: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!