Do you stay in touch with your exes? Because I don’t.

First of all, I have only two. My high school boyfriend. And my college boyfriend. Sure, there were dalliances here and there between relationships, but nothing really worth mentioning here. Particularly because certain people read my blog. (Hey, Grammy!)

So, I have two exes. And I speak to them never.

Thanks to Facebook and a scattering of once-mutual friends, I have some vague sense of what they are up to, but that’s about  it. My high school boyfriend had a baby not long ago and I saw the photos of his adorable son (and his gorgeous wife) on Facebook. I looked through these photos, the bright blue eyes of his first-born, the impossibly vast smile on my ex’s face and I said to myself, This is ridiculous. If this were anyone else in the world, I would send a quick note of congratulations and say hello. It really should be no different for an ex-boyfriend whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in well over a decade.

And so. Being the little rebel I am (ha), I fired off a personal message to my high school ex welcoming him to the wonderful world of parenthood. I said something trite and true like, Having kids is the best thing that has ever happened to me, so enjoy this! And then, immediately upon sending, I felt a stab of guilt like I had crossed some invisible and ominous line. And then. Then I promptly fessed up to Husband over dinner that night. We dined at an outdoor table across from the Museum of Natural History. We shared a plate of delectable flash-fried artichokes. I told Husband that my ex from high school who is now a doctor in California had his first baby. And that I congratulated him via Facebook message. And Husband smiled. He couldn’t care less.

And then there is college boyfriend. We were together for more than four years. For better or worse, I don’t think he is on Facebook. But I do hear bits and pieces about him from time to time. I know that he is pursuing a career that is passionate about and last I heard he is dating a girl seriously and a great girl at that. He could be married now. Who knows. But hearing these things? It makes me smile. Because, once upon a time, I care a whole lot about this guy. And his family. And his happiness.

And so. Where are we going here? It is hard to say, but bear with me. Yesterday’s conversation about the viability of male-female friendships got me thinking. It was a phenomenal exchange – thanks to you guys – and sparked something in me. Many of you left comments mentioning exes. And I realized that this is a big, fat and interesting conversation unto itself.

Exes. What role do they play (or not play) in our current lives and minds?

And so. Here I am, racing the clock, clumsily writing about this. About this question. About these rules I intuit, perhaps foolishly, in our adult word. The rule that once we settle (and I say settle in the best possible sense of the word), we are implored not to shake things up by thinking (or writing) about past relationships or speaking to exes. The rule that once we walk away from someone, we are not meant to look back. The rule that once we finish one chapter of our life – whether it ends gracefully or messily – we are meant to get on with our story…

Maybe these rules don’t exist. Maybe I made them up in my head. Maybe they are aspects of my own prudence. I do know many people who keep in close contact with their exes and even see them from time to time. Truth be told, this baffles me. Maybe some of us can make this work and some of us just can’t.

But part of me thinks it is a shame to cut all ties and burn once robust bridges. My exes were once a part of my life and I have many fond memories of them and I think it is a bit arbitrary and capricious to insist that there is never ever any more communication ever. It just seems harsh.

Or maybe just smart?

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• How many exes do you have? Do you ever speak with them or see them? Do you have a sense of what they are up to?
  
• Do you think this modern age of social media makes it too easy to keep tabs on our past flames?
  
• What dictates our willingness or unwillingness to stay in contact with exes? The nature of the breakup? Partner’s proneness to jealousy? Our own fears of what might happen? Societal expectations?
  
• Do you and your partner ever talk about your respective exes? Are you careful not to talk about past relationships in front of your children if you have them?

A few weeks ago, Husband and I were chatting with Toddler’s teacher at a school event and she said something wonderful. She said that Toddler is equally drawn to the girls and boys in her class. She is friends with girls and friends with boys. She doesn’t discriminate. At age three, it seems this is the way it should be.

But what about at age thirty-one?

Because I do not have a single stand alone friend that is a boy at this point. Sure, I consider my friends’ husbands to be friends, but there is no guy, not one, whom I would call up and say hey. There is no guy, not one, whom I would track down for a quick lunch or a quick drink.

Truth be told, I am not the best case study. For whatever reason, I have never had a collection of boy friends. I’m not really sure why. It could be that as one of five sisters, I was always most comfortable hanging with girls. It could be that, deep down, I believed that platonic relationships between guys and girls were tricky and usually ended up being charged with romantic and sexual complications. This did happen to me at least once and maybe I just learned my lesson.

But I look around and I see a pattern. Take Husband. Once upon a time, he had a bevy of girl friends. Many of his closest buddies were members of the opposite sex. And now? He is Facebook friends with most, but that is the extent of it. Take the majority of my married – and mommy – friends. I have not taken an official poll, but it seems to me that boy friends have fallen off, have been relegated to the fringes of busy lives, or have been deleted from those busy lives all together.

And maybe that is what it is all about. Being busy. Maybe it is that this juggling act called Life is hard work. That between professional and parental and personal obligations, we feel stretched to the max. That there is no free time in which to phone up our less central buddies – whether they are girls or boys. Maybe the explanation for this sociological shift boils down to the practicalities and pulls of modern existence.

Or maybe there is something more. Once upon a time, things were less serious. There were not marriages to wreck and kids to screw up. Maybe the number of opposite sex friendships wanes – as a social or biological means – to protect monogamy? Maybe eliminating these relationships is a logical way to minimize distraction and competition and is simply part and parcel of commitment?

I don’t know. I don’t pretend to know. I’m guessing here. But when there are no answers, guessing is good.

Anyway, this all strikes me as weird. And as unfortunate. That at age three, the world is our classroom and our classroom is our world. That we are encouraged to play with boys and girls. But that time slips by, that life grows gray, and we retreat to our own side of the classroom. This seems a shame.

Part of me longs for that boy friend I never quite had. A benevolent fellow to offer a different view. A buddy to blue up my pink days. Part of me thinks I would be a more well-rounded person and a more nuanced writer if I had greater access to the male perspective.

So I need a boy friend. Or a handful. That would be cool.

(And of course I have one boyfriend. The one-word breed. A best friend. Husband. And I wouldn’t trade him for the world. But husbands don’t count here. Why? Because I say so.)

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Do you have friends of the opposite sex (or attractive sex, to be more politically correct)? Did you used to have more boy friends or girl friends? Does adulthood or marriage or parenthood kill these relationships? Is there just no time to nurture these peripheral connections or is there a more complicated explanation at play here? Does this come down to (an unspoken or spoken) jealousy between spouses? Ultimately, is keeping these relationships to a minimum a way to safeguard a marriage or a family?

We sit at our favorite table in the back of Alice’s Tea Cup, our favorite weekend breakfast spot. Per usual, the girls wear the sparkly fairy wings they were given on the way in. Their porcelain cheeks glisten with fairy dust that has been known to cure skinned knees. Toddler nibbles her banana bread, moist and brown. Baby gobbles her blackberries. Husband and I hold court, sipping green tea, waiting for our poached eggs to arrive. It is the portrait of Saturday morning civilization.

Until.

Until there is a grating crescendo in the normal brunch symphony. A droning voice breaks through din of controlled chaos at our table. Two words carry.

“Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League… blah blah blah… Ivy League.”

Now, Husband and I are usually pretty good at tuning others out, at focusing on each other and the girls, but this becomes too much. We stop talking. And listen.

“I once worked at Polo. Can you believe it? I know. I was a polo shirt specialist. I knew everything about those shirts and everyone was so impressed, so impressed, but I was like… I am wasting my education. I shouldn’t be here. I mean I am applying to Ivy League law schools. I mean, really…”

Husband and I smile at each other. Sip away. Break banana bread into tiny bits for Baby.

“I mean, honestly, the only thing that is truly wrong about living in Tribeca and I have the hardest time getting to Bergdorf’s. It’s really a pain.”

At this, I turn to look. I can’t help it. I see him. He’s on the smaller side. Has meticulously-plucked brows. He wears, yes, a Polo shirt. He runs his hands through one of those long/shaggy/preppy lacrosse-player-haircuts. His wife, blond, pleasant-looking, clutches her swollen belly. She is very pregnant. I look away.

“Ugh. We have to go look at cabinets after this. Shoot me, right? They cost as much as a BMW but are not even cool. Ugh. Oh, honey! Remember when we went on that purse hunt? When we had to cajole that Chanel bag out of that guy at Barney’s???”

At this, Baby, now supporting an amazing blackberry goatee, swivels in her highchair and gives the obnoxious man a good old piercing baby stare. Apparently, the guy sees her doing this.

“Everyone stop moving. Stop talking. We are being watched.”

He is not smiling as he says this. He must be kidding.

I don’t think he is.

“Jesus, babies freak me out.”

I’m sure this is lovely for his pregnant wife to hear. And for my Baby to hear.

“I just wish I was a lawyer in the old days. Honey, remember when you had your associates run out and buy you jeans? Little suckers. Those were the days.”

They are lawyers. All four of them. The other couple says something about working in the Public Defender’s Office, but I can’t really hear them because they speak at a Normal Person Decibel.

“Well, you should at least move to the South or to the Midwest. Where there is actually some crime. Hell, there’s nothing going on there, but at least there are murders. Hell, those places are practically known for their murders.”

Husband and I stare at each other in disbelief. Our eggs have arrived. Our waitress rolls her eyes and mutters so sorry before slipping away. And Husband and I smile. At her before she goes. At each other. At our girls who giggle in oblivion. Baby turns around to stare some more. Again, the man makes some crack about the sheer horror of being observed by a one-year-old.

“Well, this is blogworthy,” I say to Husband. “This guy should be a character in my next book. He’s that bad.”

Truth be told, he would not be a good character in a book because he is a caricature. A living and breathing and horrendous cliche.

And then Husband takes the words right out of my mouth.

“I have to get a picture of this guy,” Husband says. He pulls out his iPhone, fiddles with it, and pretends to help Baby with her food.

He gets a good shot. A perfect shot.

A shot which I immediately envision posting on my blog. How perfect!

(But then I come to my boring old senses and decide that I will not do this because I am a good girl and I have no interest in going the snark route on this blog. Because I have no interest in posting an actual picture of an actual person who was just trying to enjoy a subdued brunch of tea and scones on a Saturday morning. Right.)

As he and his party pay the check, Mr. Obnoxious continues to blabber on about everything offensive.

Ivy League!… Chanel!… I am basically just a sperm donor!… The South? Yuck!… Did I mention I played lacrosse in college?… I am a lawyer!… Ivy League!

Talk about Ivy League insecurities.

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Describe the most obnoxious person you’ve ever encountered. Come on. No holding back. Tell me. (Even if it’s me. Hey, I blab from time to time about the Ivy League – witness this post. Maybe I am just a milder version of this monster? Uh oh.) Do you have an impression of Ivy Leaguers (or New Yorkers or Americans or lawyers) that is at all like this terrible guy? Do you think that people act this way because they are profoundly insecure or because they are missing some socialization chip? Do you think people like this have any clue how obnoxious they are? Is acting like this an intentional, attention-seeking ploy?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* {Wonderful musing on the exquisite escalator that is parenthood} The Moving Staircase from Being Rudri.

* {”Striving for balance is a losing game”} The Suck Factor of Life Balance, + Passion as a Cure to Stress from White Hot Truth.

* {Always ask the big questions – even about blogging} Why We Read Blogs from An Attitude Adjustment.

* {What inspires you to blog?} Inspiration: My Journey in Blogging from Coffees and Commutes

* {”Part of evolving is our capacity for reinvention”} Who Do Think You Are? from The Halfway Point

Our apartment is now officially on the market. After a week-plus of Operation DDD (Declutter, Deep Clean, & Donate), our home is looking pretty slamming, so I’m cautiously optimistic that it will strike some unknown New Yorker’s fancy. I hope so because we are slated to move into our new place in two months or so. Right around the time of my book release. This isn’t a busy time or anything. Nah.

Anyway, yesterday was our first open house. After yet another speed-cleaning operation, Husband, the girls and I left our place in the capable hands of our wonderful broker and drove to New Jersey to visit our good friends and their new home. While we were tending to backseat vomit volcanoes and touring our new friends’ palatial abode, our broker welcomed scores of strangers into our home. Strangers who then trouped through our space. Seeing our pictures. Seeing our stories. Seeing those terrible stains on our beleaguered white chairs.

It was an exquisite winter/spring day. We couldn’t have ordered up a better one. And we had a good time in New Jersey catching up with our friends and their two kids, watching our girls soak in the suburban splendor and run free in the space they will never quite have. And my mind was there. It was. On the laughter, on the appetizers, on the kiddie mayhem.

But my mind was also elsewhere. Here. On this house. On this home. This place that has pillowed me through so much. My safe haven. I kept imagining the parade of people walking from room to room. Running fingertips along surfaces. Our surfaces. Peeking through windows. Our windows. Loving or hating a layout. Our layout.

Yes, I couldn’t stop thinking of all those who stopped by to glimpse a house. A home. A world.

Our house. Our home. Our world.

After the open house was over, our broker called with a report. She said there were twenty-four parties who signed in! That there was a lot of good interest, that many people would like to make an appointment to come back and see our place again. And this is good. This is very good.

So why doesn’t this feel so good then? Why does this feel more complicated than good?

Because it is.

When night fell, we secured sleepy girls in car seats and made our way home. The drive was quick. And while Husband was returning Sister I’s car (I – there is no aromatic or physical evidence of baby vomit – I promise!), the girls and I settled in at home. We walked in and I turned the lights on.

And our place seemed different. There were no precarious piles of mail. There were no dishes in the sink. There were no cat toys littering the hardwoods. There was no mess. There was no noise.

The place already felt a little less ours.

I took the girls up to bed. We picked pajamas. We read a book. We sang a song. And as we did these things last night, I looked around. I lingered on things I wouldn’t otherwise notice. The pale yellow stripes on the wall we will leave behind. The black and white pattern on the carpet that won’t be ours for long.

And then I kissed my girls goodnight.

And this morning, I realize as I write these words, that my surge of emotion about moving, about big change, is probably perfectly par for the course. That transitions, even the most exquisite transitions, can be both beautiful and difficult at once.

And I realize something else – right here, right now – as I type these words one after the other. I realize that it is open house every day here chez ILI. You come here, benevolent strangers, and poke around. Some of you sign in with comments and some of you just come and go. But all of you take it in – the stories, the pictures, the questions. Each of you glimpses me and my world through the crafty and clumsy evidence I leave for you – my words, my worries, my wants. Some of you like what you see and come back. Some of you shake your head no and never return.

And now my mind flits feverishly, going where the metaphor, this good metaphor, takes me…

Is this blogosphere a virtureal estate market of sorts? Are we bloggers selling ourselves and our stories? Are we opening ourselves up and inviting others in? Are we advertising the aspects of our worlds? The layouts of our lives? The fixtures and fittings of our fears? The rooms of our regret? Are we, in effect, saying, Stop by, walk around, take a look, see if you like what I have to offer? See if it’s worth the investment?

Do we bloggers declutter our hearts and our heads and our homes before showing them off? Do we wipe down the surfaces of soul and psyche before letting people in? Do we touch up the paint of our parenthood or our personhood? Do we make ourselves seem more ordered, more open, more generic so that others will like us?

Or do we bloggers do the opposite? Do we welcome legions of strangers and say, I do not have it all together. Look at this clutter in my mind, look at this dirty pile of longing, look at the cracks in my ceiling?

Who knew that a simple open house would be (for me) not-so-simple? Who knew that contemplating good change would send me into a metaphorical Monday madness? Who knew that hanging a price tag on my past and my place would create a thicket of mixed feelings about permanence and progress?

(I did.)

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How have you handled the moves in your life (between homes, relationships, jobs, etc)? Did you have mixed feelings too? Do you enjoy attending open houses? If so, why? Do you agree that blogging is – in some sense – like hosting a 24/7 Open House? Where do you think this metaphor breaks down?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

I am hard at work on Novel #2, so I am having a tough time staying on top of my favorite blogs, but I just read two posts from favorite cyber creatives. Both have been blogging for a year now and both write exquisitely and evocatively about the past year and the ways in which blogging has changed them (and not changed them). Check out these women and their words:

* Liz of the heartfelt and hilarious blog …But Then I Had Kids looks back over her last year in her post 365 Posts + 109 Posts = One Revised Me.

* Sarah, one half of the delightful Momalom sister duo, celebrates the fact that it’s Spring Again.

When I am at a loss for words (like now), I think of moments.

Like that moment when Toddler wrestled her little sister in the bold sunshine and I realized: These are my girls and they will always be sisters.

Like that moment when we took Toddler to the petting zoo right before her sister was born and she let the goats gobble from her tiny hands and I realized: One day she will be fearful, but not yet.

Like that moment when Toddler zipped through the playground on our corner and I realized: She is her own person.

Like that moment when we girls huddled happily on the hardwood floor amidst lovely chaos and I realized: I am a mother of two.

Like that moment my girls took a bath together and I realized: They are in it together. This bath. This life.

Like that moment I gave Baby her first Starbucks cup and I realized: One day, she will sip from this cup and not kick it around.

Like that moment when Toddler paced that big old porch clutching that tiny toy rod and I realized: She will fish one day. For trout. For happiness.

Like that moment when Husband led Toddler down to the dock and I realized: That was once Dad and me. At this very same pond. Some things change. Some things stay the same.

Like that moment I lifted my big girl over my shoulders to see the expanse of nature and I realized: This is my job. My biggest job. To lift her up. To let her see.

Like that moment on Independence Day when Toddler skipped through candy green grass clutching a big pink ball and I realized: One day I will not be able to catch her.

Like that moment when Baby first played with grass and tasted a few blades and I realized: There is so much for her to discover. And I must let her.

Like that moment when they wore matching pajamas and played together, really played together, and I realized: They will always play. They will always have each other.

Like that moment when Toddler pranced through the sand and studied her footprints and shadows and I realized: Life is full of prints and shadows, simple evidence of existence and presence.

Like that early morning moment in South Carolina when the girls and Daddy gazed out the window at a new day and I realized: The world is full of wide windows and new beginnings.

Like that moment when my big girl studied the rainbow of flowers and I realized: Life is full of color and it’s our job to see it.

Like that moment when Baby ran away and onto that bridge and I realized: Life is full of bridges between There and Here, Then and Now.

Like that moment on Christmas morning when my girls waited patiently to open their gifts and I realized: This is life. Waiting patiently to open the gifts that await us.

Like that moment when we hailed a yellow taxi after Toddler’s birthday celebration at Preschool and I realized: Time is passing. There won’t always be purple crowns.

Like that moment when I grabbed Baby and kissed her tiny ear and I realized, The love I feel for these creatures is impossible.

Like that moment when Daddy plopped two giggling girls into environmentally-friendly grocery bags and toted them through our kitchen and I realized: This is fun. This is silly. This is life. This is it.

These are my moments. These are my girls.

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Do you agree that happiness is about moments – enjoying them while they happen and sifting through them after the fact? In times of existential quiet, do you also think of moments? Do you think modern existence makes it hard to appreciate the moments of our days? Do you think this is why so many of us blog – to memorialize the moments that might otherwise evaporate?