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.

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• 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?

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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.