I met Husband’s parents very soon after Husband and I started dating. About two months or so. They came to town one weekend for dinner and a show. Frankly, I was all of twenty-three, super naive, and in a bit of a lovey-dovey haze, so I didn’t get too nervous. I was actually excited.

But.

But the night before they arrived, I found myself vomiting – and violently – and camped out on my bathroom tiles. Lovely. I was not just ill. I was ill. Turns out I had a bout of the Norwalk Virus that was spiraling through my good city. But I rallied. And by the time the in-laws swooped into town, I was able to transfer from horizontal to vertical, shower and dress. Husband and I headed to the restaurant to meet them.

And there they were. The most put-together, attractive set of parents I’ve ever seen (next to my own, bien sur). And I was mildly intimidated by these polite and pretty creatures especially because – barely in the wake of my stomach bug – I felt like a mere shell of myself and could barely string a sentence together. It was not the best moment in which to meet the People to Impress.

But anyway.

Dinner was lovely. I sipped slowly from my water glass and barely touched my wine. I picked at my food. This was nothing like me and I sat there thinking, I am acting like the opposite of me. Normally, I would be savoring the courses and the conversations. But not that night. But I held it together. I smiled at appropriate intervals. I felt safe sitting next to Husband. I made it through the evening without a vomit incident in an upscale restaurant. I considered it a victory.

So, looking back, I did not make the best first impression. But thankfully I’ve had a few years to make up for it. As I learned long ago, Grammy and Dad-Dad are not just lookers, but they are warm, intelligent, and loving. When it comes to the In-Law Lottery, I unwittingly hit the Jackpot. I consider myself lucky. Very.

At this point in my life, a good number of my friends are married. And you know what? Many of them have problematic relationships with their in-laws. Many of them. Over the years, I have heard tons of shocking and hilarious and wacky in-law sagas. I am beginning to realize – and thank my lucky stars – that in this arena, I seem to be the exception to the Have-In-Laws-Have-Issues-Rule.

It’s funny because my Mommy Friends have been passing around an advance copy of LIFE AFTER YES. I am thrilled to say that they have all loved it. But recently one of these friends emailed to say that she adored the story, but she had one question.

Did your mother-in-law read it yet??!!

At this question, I smiled. Because there is a difficult mother-in-law character in my story. One that is not even marginally based on Grammy. For those of you who are writers, this might prove an interesting aside, but when I signed with Agent, she had a few insightful comments on my manuscript. In her estimation, the protagonist’s beau Sage was too good, too squeaky-clean. Agent suggested I dirty him up a bit so he would better balance his exceptionally-flawed amour. And so I did. I added a new character to the mix. His mother. A domineering and depressed Mama Bear who has trouble releasing her claws. This additional fifty pages brought the book to a whole new level of intrigue and depth. Point is that I have a good agent and that there is zero connection between my fictional and my real MIL.

Anyway, this is all a very, very roundabout way of telling you that we are all headed to Pennsylvania later today to visit Grammy and Dad-Dad for the weekend to celebrate Dad-Dad’s impending sixty-fifth birthday. And we are excited. Not for the near-certainty of car vomit, but for the change of pace and scenery and for the good dose of family fun.

And I sit here, moments before the girls rise, contemplating the day ahead, the many things I must do before we hit the road. There is a Preschool breakfast, and a construction meeting, and an appointment in midtown. There is wine to order. There are bags to pack. And it is all kind of overwhelming. Particularly because I’m not moving at full speed this morning and these days – emotionally at least.

You see, Monday would be my own Dad’s sixty-eighth birthday if he were still around and I tend to fall apart around this time of the year. This time last year was a rough and revealing stretch for me. A time when I stopped pretending I was totally okay and began to let myself examine my life after loss. A time when it occurred to me to start a blog. To open up. To acknowledge struggle. Mine. All of ours. To ask questions. Mine. All of ours. It was an impossible time for me, but ultimately an exquisite turning point. I’m able to see this now.

But this year. I am a bit better. A lot better, actually. Just heavy with awareness and soft with sadness as I anticipate Monday and think about that gaping hole in my family’s fabric.

But this year. I am able to see the life-honed bounty at my feet. I am able to see the simple and stunning truth that I am alive, awash in a sea of family – by blood, by law, by life, and, yes, by blog – that buoys me through the good days.

And the harder ones.

_______________________________

• Am I the only one who genuinely loves my in-laws? Do you have In-Law Issues? (Has anything exacerbated these issues? Kids? Incidents? Confrontations? Geographical distance?)
• Tell me your best (a.k.a. worst) in-law story!
• Tell me your “Met the Parents” story!
  
• Have you ever broken up with someone you cared about because his/her parents were terrible?
• Have you ever imagined how you will be as someone else’s in-law?
  
• Are there particular times of year when you tend to have a hard time for one reason or another?
• In retrospect, did you start your blog for a reason, a deeper reason, than you once thought?
  

(For the record, I’m not sure what the deal is with these frogs. Presumably, the lone frog is envious of the palpable intimacy between the other two frogs? What matters is that they are green. And cute. And froggies are Toddler’s favorite animal.)

With a triple-barreled Irish name like Aidan Donnelley Rowley, you’d think I have grand plans today in honor of St. Patty’s Day. Not so much.

Actually, that’s not true. I do have grand plans. It’s just that they are no different than any other Wednesday plans. I will spend exactly nine hours solo with my girls. (Not that I’m counting.) We will play newly-acquired board games. (Hungry Hungry Hippos rocks. Fact that Baby threatens to swallow those little white “snack” marbles that are meant to be fodder for plastic hippos and not human children does not rock quite as much.)

After Husband takes Toddler to Preschool, Baby and I will hang in our PJs for a bit. Then we will attend gym class where she will show up all the big kids with her tumbling skills. Then we will kill some time bond at Starbucks. Then we will pick up Toddler from school where the girls will insist upon using the water fountain in the hallway and then spill copious amounts of water on the threshold of the Head of School’s office door. And then we will head to the diner where I will dutifully order mac & cheese and dinosaur nuggets from the kids’ menu and then bribe Toddler with chocolate ice cream so I can finish my salad (and her fries). And then we will hightail it home for one nap and one quasi-nap. And then we will do everything in our power to destroy the living room, play ceaseless games of Hungry Hungry Hippos and wait until Daddy comes home from work. At which point, it is bath, bed, and beyond. Takeout. TV. Night night.

Aren’t you glad you asked? Wait, you didn’t?

My bad.

The point here is that, no, I have no wild and woolly plans for this special day, but I wanted to include the word “green” in the title. And that is not illegal. I checked.

Alas, this is where my post turns more serious. You ready?

ENVY.

It is an ugly beast that lurks in the dusty corners of our homes and heads and hearts. None of us is immune to envy.

What amazes me, what truly amazes me, is that there are good chunks of time where I (consciously) feel zero envy. One friend loses her baby weight in 3.5 days? Good for her! One friend lets it slip that she got a raise and now makes a million a year? Bravo! She so deserves it! One friend’s three-year-old is reading chapter books? How fabulous! What a tiny braniac!

But then.

Then there are some days, soggier days, existentially creaky days, when I’m not so chipper. One friend’s husband whisks her away on a surprise trip to Europe? That’s so cheesy! What ever is he compensating for? One friend runs a marathon in under three hours? She is ruining her joints. One friend has that fabulous new Chanel bag? Gross! Material things do not make us happy.

One cyber-colleague has a bazillion comments on her blog post today? Whatever. Comments mean nothing.

No, wait. Comments mean everything! I am just flailing in a corrupt pool of competitiveness, a toxic sea of envy. Lovely. Just lovely.

Recently, I read two wonderful and relevant blog posts on this topic. First, Rebecca of Diary of a Virgin Novelist penned a very honest and compelling post about the shock of envy she felt when a friend of hers quit her job to write fiction. Rebecca confesses her initial bitterness and admits her first thoughts, “She is going to beat me to it. She is going to show me up.” Second, Celeste of Perusing Celeste, opened up about joining this blogosphere and feeling periodic surges of envy when reading others’ well-written blogs. In her post, she explains that when she reads an exceptional piece of writing, a dreaded feeling swoops in: “Never in a million years could I have found the words to say it that well! Why can’t I write like that?  I will never be able to write like that.”

And so. It occurred to me – and occurs to me now – that this envy thing is universal ergo worth addressing. My utterly non-expert take?

Insecurity breeds envy.

Insofar as we are all insecure from time to time, insofar as we all have our fair share of not good enough moments, we also feel envious of others from time to time. When in the throes of insecurity and doubt, we often can’t help but bemoan the seeming successes and perfection of others.

And here’s the interesting thing: I think envy has little or nothing to do with its object and everything to do with us, the feelers of it. When we are down and out and floundering, it is possible to be envious of almost anyone. But when those insecurities wane, when our confidence resumes, we are more apt to celebrate the good fortune of our peers.

Do you buy this decidedly unoriginal hypothesis? Because I do.

And having this trusty hypothesis in my arsenal is helpful on days like today, when sweet little girls run the show, bossing their well-meaning mom around, making her sweat and plead for justice and order and quality naps. Yes, theories, sturdy psychological theories, come in handy on these days when insecurities rise to a boil and envy – of people with an ounce of control over the trajectory of their moments or people with moderately tidy living rooms – becomes a distinct possibility.

A man whom I have never heard of named Saint John Chrysostom once said, “As a moth gnaws a garment, so doth envy consume a man.” And I agree. Envy is no good. It eats away at the edges of our goodness. It leaves holes in our happiness.

But can we control envy? Can we limit its impact? Can we keep it from consuming us?

I don’t know. But speaking of being consumed, I am consumed with pride. Toddler, ever the digital native and precocious artiste, created the following masterpiece on my iPhone.

What is it? It is a poetic rendering of Mommy’s brain after a Wednesday with her darling girls.

(Don’t be envious. I’m sure your kid is smart too.)

___________________________

• Do you agree that none of us is impervious to envy? Do you think that envy is an inevitable product of competitiveness?
  
• Do you agree that insecurity breeds envy?
• Do you think we can control the amount of envy we feel?
  
• Do you think envy has any redeeming aspects? Do you think it motivates us or paralyzes us?
  
• How do you handle the successes of people close to you?
• Do you ever experience envy of other parents or people?
• Have you ever experienced blog envy?
• Do you have any fun plans for St. Patrick’s Day?
• Thoughts on the frogs?
  

Don’t be fooled. I write these words on Sunday night. At 8:18pm. The girls are tucked in bed. The cats have been fed. The house is impeccably clean. And impossibly quiet. And I am here. In my dark study. Staring at my bright screen. Violating my no-blogging-on-weekends mandate.

Normally, this would be when you and I exhale a collective sigh of relief that Sunday is coming to a close. Normally, this would be when you and I retreat to the couch for an hour or two of mindless television mixed with mindful conversation.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I am alone. Well, not alone. I am in a home with four beating hearts, four brilliant hearts, other than mine. Two little girls who are entering dreamland and two not-so-little cats who just enjoyed a late dinner and now purr at my ankles. So, no. Not alone.

But alone.

Without you, something is missing. A big something. Without you, our home feels less full. Without you, I feel less full. And, thankfully, I don’t have many opportunities to test this theory of familial subtraction, but today has been that opportunity.

This afternoon, the four of us went to a birthday party. You brought your suitcase. You parked it next to our diaper bag and in a sea of tiny shoes. We had no time to mope. No, we were busy dividing and conquering and chasing our two speedy and fearless girls as they went wild on the trampoline and buried themselves in little plastic balls.

But after cake frosting, it was time. Time to duck out of the party and say goodbye. The four of us walked to the corner in the spritzing rain. You, ever the gentleman, ever my gentleman, put us, your girls, in a taxi. And when you did so, Baby bawled and wrestled me, belting out that one word she enunciates so clearly. Daddy. And you looked back at us, pinning us with tear-soaked blues, before choking out that impossible goodbye.

And we made it home in one piece. Baby fell asleep on me in the taxi and Toddler stood by my side and we transferred her to her crib for nap. And Toddler settled in for a fifteen minute faux nap before crooning my favorite word. Mommy. I scooped her from her big girl bed. And she agreed to help me clean up a bit for our second open house.

And the rest of the day? It was a bit of a marathon, but a magical one. The rain did not abate and we girls were homeless in the elements while our broker hosted a slew of strangers in our place. We made an emergency potty stop at Starbucks. We popped by the toy store and bought one of my favorite childhood games – Let’s Go Fishin’. We bought a birthday present for my nephew who turns ten tomorrow. And then we hit Barnes & Noble where the girls each picked a book. And I did too. Dani Shapiro’s Devotion. A book that a good friend of mine has been raving about.

And then we made our way to Mom’s to camp out for a bit before my nephew’s birthday celebration. The girls were fantastic. They played. They sat with us at the dinner table. They devoured the day’s second serving of birthday cake frosting. There were no epic meltdowns. As the day drew to a close, I actually felt like a decently-in-control mom. I don’t have that feeling too often, so this was nice.

And then we strolled home, along soggy sidewalks, in the city dark. Baby sang. Toddler skipped. And we walked in. Into our little haven which won’t be ours for too long. Into our little world. And we inched toward bed. And then we made it there.

And now. Now I am here. Basking in silence. Basking in awareness. Awareness that only comes with distance. Awareness that somehow, someway, I found you. The guy for me. The guy who was once just a cute and crushworthy jock. The guy who quickly became the love of my life. The guy who makes me laugh and makes me coffee. The guy who surprised me – and didn’t surprise me at all – by being the best daddy I could imagine to my sweet girls.

And so. On this drizzly Sunday night, I miss you. Deeply. And within reason. We girls will be fine. We will be better than fine. We will survive. We will thrive. We will have couch jumping contests and Diego marathons and play many many games of Let’s Go Fishin’. We will indulge in a couple of silly and good days. And then. Then you will be home.

Soon. So soon. Not soon enough.

A moment ago, my phone did its dance. Its ringless rumble. And I picked it up.

Hey babe. I’m here. Waiting for my bag. I love you.

I love you.

You are waiting at baggage claim.

And I am waiting here. At home. Waiting for your key in the door. Waiting for your hug. Waiting for your kiss. Waiting for our girls to squeal Daddy. Waiting to feel full again.

Waiting for Tuesday.

Soon. So soon. Not soon enough.

Now. Now I will cue this up to go live at 6am. About the same time I will awaken to Baby’s voice, sweet and strong. And when you read these words, these sappy and heartfelt words, I will be making my own coffee. And starting a new day. A new week.

Now. Now I will shut down this little world. This wonderful world that welcomes me when I am alone. When I need it. Now I will crawl into a big bed with two loyal cats and one new book. And I will read about devotion. What it means to someone else. Because, on nights like this, when I am missing you so profoundly and so pathetically, I know just what devotion means to me.

Night night. Good morning.

(I miss you, babe. We miss you. Hurry home.)

____________________________________

• Do you enjoy when your partner travels or do you hate it like I do?
• Do you agree that there is a certain breed of awareness that is only felt in absence?
• Are you envious that Husband, though traveling for business, is partying it up at SXSW? (Because I am.)
• Do you think it makes me a big baby that I am so sad that my man is away for a couple of days? Be honest.
• Whom do you miss when you are alone?
  

ILI DAILY CHARM (yes, singular)

When I first started blogging, I happened upon a great blog called The Elmo Wallpaper. And I fell in love. With the voice. With the rawness. The wryness. The realness. Promptly, like a good rookie, I added this blog to my baby blogroll. Not too long after, I got an email from the blog’s author Mama (yes, I know her name, but I’m not telling!). She thanked me for linking to her and complimented my writing. So began our periodic email exchanges. I am now 30,000+ words into REFILL (my next novel!) and am doing a pretty sad job of staying atop my favorite blogs, but I just caught up over at The Elmo Wallpaper. And thank goodness I did. Two of Mama’s recent posts, profound and provocative, are nothing short of exquisite. In reading these posts, I am reminded why I fell for this blog – and its author – in the first place. Even as a newbie, I apparently knew what I was doing. Please read Appreciation and then its follow up On Why I Don’t “Need Some Feminism.”

I am not a word snob. No. I like words of all shapes and sizes and levels of pretension. I do.

It’s just that I’ve never been a fan of the word special.

Not until last night.

Last night was big. A big night out. With Toddler.

There was a pajama party at Preschool. After missing Toddler’s pizza and pajama birthday party thanks to my untimely bout of swine, I was not going to miss this one. Because I was not sure whether little Toddler would want to be dropped off in the evening hours and left alone with her pajama-clad peers, I volunteered to work at the event so that I could be there with her. It was a grand plan.

And it was a busy day. Thursdays tend to be my busiest. I buzzed around this fine city, in and out of dates and meetings, chirping ceaselessly on my cell about real estate (we have an offer on our apartment!) and real life (my tiny newborn nephew was in the ER). Anyway, I hightailed it home in the late afternoon for my most important appointment of the day. My appointment with Toddler.

There she was, in her purple and green froggie PJs, sporting fabulous pigtails only Nanny can finagle. Her smile was vast as she ran toward me. And then we ran off to school for the festivities. We arrived in the school gym and promptly realized that the vast majority of the kids were older. There was only one little boy from her class. But Toddler, sheepish and brave, spread her orange blanket by the other kids to watch “Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs.”

For about thirty seconds. The volume wasn’t really sufficient and the kids were rowdy. Toddler clung to me a bit. Fellow parents started handing out pieces of pizza. One child refused pizza. Yup. Toddler.

We made our way to the little crafts table on the other side of the gym where Toddler got to work making a mask. It was one of those little black Zorro-esque masks and when she scratched the surface of the paper with a stick, rainbows appeared. Black magic. I smiled. A relic from my own childhood. When she finished her mask, she asked that I put it on her. And so I did. It was a nice complement to the pigtails. Who cared that it basically covered her eyes? Not Toddler.

Despite asking her several times if she wanted me to hold her mask in my bag, she said no. And then she declared that she wanted to make a mask to bring home to her sister. I smiled as she scratched some more black magic. And then she made a little car keychain. I asked if she wanted to watch some more of the movie and sit with the other kids, but no. She wanted to do her own thing. And she insisted on making a star keychain for her baby sister. More mommy smiles.

When she tired of the arts and crafts, she hopped up. And looked around. As much as she could through that poor-visibility mask. And then she started running around the gym, a skip in her step. I stood back and smiled. And then a fellow parent, the only dad in attendance, the only PJ-clad adult in attendance, organized a story time. And cookies emerged. Toddler cuddled on my lap and listened intently to stories. And helped herself to four cookies. A mother next to me looked over and said, Wow. And I shrugged my shoulders and muttered some mommy apology: Guess I’m a bad mom. I try, but she is not the best eater. And she loves cookies.

And then the same daddy organized a genius game of Freeze Dance. The kids bogeyed down. When the music stopped, the children did their best (and hilarious) impressions of statues. Toddler did this wacky and amazing dance where she marched like a soldier/robot and spun around in a circle. On the sidelines, I could not stop laughing. This was fun.

And then when things got a tad out of control, this inventive father miraculously got all the kids to sit in a cluster on the gym floor. He told them that they were going to have a “quiet and thoughtful time” or something like that. Remarkably, the kids obliged. The father explained that they were going to go around and that each child was to introduce him or herself and say something that made him or her special.

Special.

The kids were fantastic. One boy stood and said he was special because “he goes to the grocery store and gets stuff.” Another boy said he was special because “he is in to Star Wars.” One girl said she was special because “her brother liked Star Wars.” On the periphery, we parents chuckled. And I didn’t think savvy and sassy Toddler would be into this exercise in sharing feelings, but boy was I wrong. Each and every time, she raised not one hand, but both and stood, jumping up and down. She desperately wanted this man to call on her.

And he didn’t. Because, as is par for the course with wee ones, distraction set in and it was on to the next thing. Soon, it was time for us to leave and I scooped up my sugar-soaked and sleepy babe and we headed out.

In the lobby of her school, as I zipped her purple coat, I asked.

“Honey, what were you going to say if you were called on? What’s your something special?”

And she looked up at me, blue eyes bright through that black magic mask, and said, “I’m special because I want to share all my toys with my sister.”

And I smiled. Wow did I smile. And I suffocated her with a hug. And I pushed her pigtail from her ear and I said, “Babe, that is so so special.”

And so. It was a night. A night of moments. Moments in which I glimpsed a little person doing her thing. Moments in which I glimpsed goodness, pure and unadulterated goodness. And, for me, this was major. Monumental. Because this parenting thing? It’s a guessing game. A constant exercise in improvisation. Parenthood is a land where we so often flail and fail and wonder whether we are doing anything right.

But in that moment last night, in that series of moments, I saw it. Clear as day. I am doing something right. Something very right.

I am raising a good kid.

And so. I wanted to get this down. This little story. This big realization. Because both will fade. With time, they will lose their hue and evaporate in the good air of this good world. And I don’t want this to happen. And so. I am sorry that I am not regaling you with something spicy or something sexy today.

Today? Today I memorialize something sweet.

Something special.

_________________________________________

• Have there been moments, random moments, when you have realized that you are doing a good job as a person, as a professional, as a parent?
  
• Have there been moments when you were able to glimpse uncomplicated goodness in someone you know?
  
• Do you ever feel compelled to scribble down simple stories – and the sentiments that come with them – so that you can remember more fully and look back?
  
• If you are a parent, are you constantly doubting whether you are doing things right?
  
• Anyone else feed their kids four cookies for dinner?

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?

____________________________________

• 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?