Lazy Sunday, Emily Style

Monday, August 31, 2009

Sunday Morning:

Em: “Mama, can you get up and make me some eggs”
Me: Yep, just let me wake up”
Em: “Ok…Are you awake now?”
Me: “Emily – You have to give me a minute. Your mother doesn’t move so fast”
Em: “Ok Mama. Are you getting up now?”
Me: “Do you see me moving? Do you see me getting up?”
Em: “Yeah. Are you going to make me eggs?”
Me: “Emily, for the love of all that is holy. I am getting up. I am going to make you eggs.”
Em: “Why are you going to the bathroom? I thought you were going to make me eggs”
Me: “I can not cook with a full bladder. Let me go to the bathroom”

She stands outside the door and waits for me to emerge.

Em: “Are you gonna make the eggs now?”
Me: “Yes. What kind of eggs do you want – 2 eggs scrambled?”
Em: “No.”
Me: “What? You got me up to make you eggs. What kind of eggs do you want”
Em: “What kind do I usually have?”
Me: “Scrambled.”
Em: “Ok, Then two eggs scrambled”

I cook eggs well. It is one of my failsafe dishes. I make them light and fluffy and present them to her on a plate with peaches on the side.

Em: “Mama, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want eggs.”
Me: “You got me up and hounded me to make you eggs. Now you say you don’t want the eggs. What on earth could you want?”
Em: “I’d like two glazed doughnuts- cause don’t you want to go to Dunkin Donuts and get yourself some coffee?”
Me: “I’d highly suggest that you eat those eggs, cause there is NO chance that you are getting anything resembling a glazed donut. But might I commend you on the effort to get me to drive out to get you some. Well played, chief.”
Em: “Ok Mama. These eggs look good But if you go out for coffee, can you get me two glazed donuts?”

Part II:

Me: “Emily, we all need to cooperate today and clean up our rooms. Can you please take care of your room?”
Em: “OK – but what are you going to do?”
Me: “The laundry and then cleaning the living room..”
Em: “Ok.” She disappears into her room. She emerges 3 minutes later.
Em: “I’ve been thinking Mama. It makes more sense for me to clean my room AFTER I play – cause I will just get it messy again. Sop I think I should Play FIRST and then clean. That’s a good plan, right Mama? Right? Cause I’ll just get it messy again if I clean it first”
Me: “Go sell that story to your father, Cause I am totally not buying that”

Why am I afraid when a seven year old can out-logic me twice by 9:30 in the morning?

Originally Posted January 2006

Lesson Learned....Never Aim for the Head

Friday, August 21, 2009

By Popular demand, The Back story of "Another Mothering Fail":

Hello all. Sorry for my little “hiatus”. Work has been, well, blecky, and I am premenstrual. Never a stellar combo. Add in the perpetual “My Balls hurt” moaning and you can well imagine the joy that has been present in my home. I am surprised they haven’t knocked on my door to do a holiday special.

Some aside notes: Yes, the Doctor has demanded that we have 20 sexual encounters before they can test his sperm sample for being “clear”. Until then, we can consider his penis a potentially lethal weapon.

We tried for the first time last night. I was terrified. I believe that I lay there like a blow up doll. I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall off on me. Talk about pressure.

He relates that he “feels better” today. Yeah right. I can see where this is going.

So today, I offer for your enjoyment, one of My most spectacular failures of mothering I was ever able to muster up. I present “The Day I caused my daughter to have a black eye cause I threw a Bitty Shoe at her in a fit of irritation” or “Why I almost had to call the Child Protective services people (….or me) on Me”

Last winter, Terrance had gone away for a business trip. I generally can keep my shit together for 5 days, then the veneer starts to crack and I look a little wild eyed and crazy.
At this point, I was driving her into school – which was 15 minutes PAST where I work, and then driving back to work, then after work driving to pick her up and then beginning the 45-minute to hour commute home. Since I picked her up at 5:30, I would get home at 6:30 p.m. or so. Not conducive to starting dinner, right? So every night when Daddy was gone, I would pick her up and take her to a different restaurant. It serves an all around need – we eat, I don’t have to cook, everyone is happy!

So, on the Thursday night in question, I decided that I wanted Thai food. I really, really wanted Thai food. Emily doesn’t care for the Thai restaurant cause she doesn’t like statues. We get to the door, she seems the statues and she starts to scream. Loudly. I am smiling at the Thai restaurant people, as my daughter crawls under my coat screaming “No, Mommy, No, I don’t like statues! Please don’t make me go in there!”

I smile at the worried looking hostess and try to say calmly “Can we have a table far, far away from any statues?” My coat is screaming and moving around. I lift the child and my coat and proceed to carry her to the table where I plop her down on the chair and whip off my coat – “See”, I say, “no statues! Calm down!”

We have a fairly pleasant dinner, after I assure her that the Tandori chicken is not the devils food, and that the jasmine rice is quite delicious!

I reward her with a new Bitty baby outfit. It is Blue and Velvety and she is excited. See – Life with Mommy is Fun!

Full and happy, we drive home. It is 7:30 p.m. and so, like Mommy’s all over the world, I am really, really ready for Em to hit the sack. We read, we snuggle and then it’s off to bed for her.

Except this is clearly not part of her plan. Instead, she hits the floor- in a full blown tantrum. She cannot find her new Bitty Shoe. I remain calm.

Me: “Did you check the car, next to your car seat?”
Me: “Emily, there is no reason for you to have this reaction.”
Me: “seriously Emily, you need to calm down – have you looked in the car?”
(There was more screaming at me, that I will leave to your imagination)

Me: (Voice raising) “Emily, I swear to god, that I if I go out to the car and find that damn bitty baby shoe, there is going to be hell to pay. I am throwing every last god damn bit of Bitty Baby shit away!!!!”

I run into the January cold night in my bare feet and pajamas. I whip open the car door and there it is – sitting right there – the blue velvet bitty baby shoe. Right where I said it would be.

I fly into the house and round the corner. I am Steaming mad. Psychotic Mommy Mad.

I throw my child’s bedroom door open and scream


And I throw the shoe in her direction. Now mind you, I wasn’t aiming at her head, really.

But like all moments of clarity, I watch as the shoe flies, in slow motion through the air. It makes a perfect arc and connects with her eye.

GGGGGAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPP. Did you hear the sucking intake of my breath?

My daughter grabs her eye and wails. Oh…………………Shit………………………….

I run and grab her hand and wrench it from her eye. I see the black and blue developing.

Em: “You hit me in the Eyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee.”

I burst into tears and run for the telephone to call my husband.

Terrance: “Dawn, calm down. Now what happened? You threw a bitty baby shoe at her? You hit her in the eye? Why did you aim for her head? Never aim for the head, honey.”

So, he calms us both down and I apologize profusely to my daughter. She can tell she’s got me now. The Mommy guilt is wafting off of me like 5 day old fish.

But here’s the thing. I have to take her to school tomorrow. I ain’t got a quiet kid. She is about to relate in gut wrenching detail how Mommy popped her in the eye with a Bitty Baby shoe. Her eye is clearly bruised. I am fucked.

I also, at that time, was managing the registry for all those in the state who had been convicted for child abuse and neglect. If the teacher calls in the bruise, she is calling me into….well, me. Double fucked.

So I must do the Mommy walk of shame into the classroom and explain what happened last night in my house. Yes. I have to hang it all out there, since my kid is definitely talking. I get about halfway through the story and burst back into tears.

Em’s teacher hugs me and tells me that it’s all right- every parent in this room has lost it with their kid and done something that they regretted, including her. A hard spanking, an arm grab, a thrown bitty baby shoe. Nobody talks about it, she says, but we all have our moments.

And so, I share with you all. My Moment. My bad, bad mommy moment. And I can assure you; she milks that baby for all it’s worth. If you ever meet her just say “bitty shoe” and watch the story tumble from her mouth.

Originally posted November 2005

Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?

Friday, August 14, 2009

Part of the beauty of being a white American has been that we - as a group - get to "Opt out" of the ugly side of life.

We get to come up with phrases like "It was just a Joke - can't you take a JOKE?" or other elaborate boondoggles that surround issues of race and culture which are designed to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate what is apparent to everyone.

Racism is alive and well - and thriving - in the United States.

Sure, I see it in Montreal too - but this culture has a very different history and so its brand of racism is based on entirely different factors.

When a police dispatcher gets to forward this photo to her police dispatcher friends on their Police email accounts from their Police Computers of "Air Force One"?

Racist. Nope, not freedom of speech. Not a joke. Referring to our President as a Nigger is racist.

Those of us who grew up in America know what he word nigger means. It isn't even as veiled at the term "colored" - nope. It pretty much sets the stage for what one is going to assume is a Racist comment. Really no line of delineation there.

How about this one?

Any guesses? She loves gardening and has planted the first sustainable and organic garden on the grounds of the white house since the Victory gardens?

Noooo. We all know what this means, wink, wink. Because you know - Black people in America were SLAVES...and SLAVES WORKED THE FIELD to make crops for their WHITE MASTERS, thereby contributing to the wealth and status of those white masters at the expense of their own lives, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Did we mention she is black here? No, of course not. We really mean she just like gardening. Alot.

And because Black American women haven't suffered enough in the way of denigration, lets remind them of the times when they could be raped and lynched for being black. Lets remind them that too many of them are still being raped and that when they call the police dispatcher to report that....Oh yeah. The police dispatchers who forwarded the Nigger email take the call.

Well, it was a JOKE, remember. Geesh, Black people are so thin skinned when it comes to jokes.

A joke like this:

So, a Nigger - complete with bone in Nose and feathered headdress, AND the soviet hammer and sickle. This is quite a nuanced image. But really, its just a joke about health care.

And here's one of my Faves:

Wow, White guys. Imposing the faces of three black men onto KKK members. Not even a veiled try there.

You are collectively scared shitless aren't you? It isn't about socialism - which you wouldn't know if it bit you in the ass since none of you have read the works of Engels or Marx beyond repeating what you hear on talk radio. Its not about health care BEING socialized since many of you are benefiting from Government Health Care through federal health insurance, Medicare, Medicaid, the know, all programs the scary government run. Its because a BLACK man - unashamedly Black, with a Black wife and Black children - is running the country. A Black Man - who knows all the innuendos and backstory on all these images being served up since it has quite literally been beaten into the collective memory of African-Americans. A Black man who isn't afraid of you - with your gun toting protests and beet red faces screaming about things you know nothing about except that someone has stirred up the reality that having white skin doesn't make you better than someone else. And then you can quote the "founding fathers" who, lets face it, wouldn't have liked you either as they were traveled men of wealth and learning and you are a crazy mob who blindly repeats things they hear from other terrified white guys.

We are not in a post racial society - and only the deluded and purposely blind white people could tell you that we are. Electing this President doesn't mean we DON'T have to have the conversation that many of us are terrified of having - and not just with other safe white people. Cause we can still call the President a Nigger in private. With our safe white friends. They get the joke after all. We don't need to hide behind jokes and images and pretend ignorance of what symbols and words may or may not be racist.

The election of this President has ripped off a very infected scab on the face of America. People crying about wanting "their America to come back" - just say what you mean. The America where the President looks like YOU. The America where you can pretend that we are well beyond racism. The America where you can forward your funny jokes to one another and no one complains. Well, maybe that while lady who married the black guy and has the bi-racial daughter, but we knew she was a race traitor anyway.

Guess what. That America isn't coming back, and its death rattle is long overdue. It will kick and scream and try to get you to go along with the innuendos and winks. Cause your their friend, right? You look like me - We have the same background, right?

Nope. Some white people have turned in their membership cards at the door, me included. And I would highly warn you to watch your words around the other white people you assume to be part of your club. Because the first one of you to make one of these jokes in front of me ( and yes, there have been fool hardy souls to do so) will have your racist ass verbally handed to them so fast that they won't know what hit them.

Don't rest in peace, racist White America. You are a herpes sore on the ass of a fine country and you have got to go.

Another Mothering Fail

Monday, August 10, 2009

Really it wasn't shocking. This latest incident. Since the incident with the Bitty Baby shoe, I have regularly confessed my less than stellar mom ability. My plan is that if I confess it first, she'll get alot less money for the tell-all book I expect her to someday shop around. At the very least, the therapist can read it as a first hand account from the pages of my blog.

I can go a long time keeping my cool. The medication helps of course, but in general I don't get riled up too often. This made me an excellent teacher of young children. Those nervous teachers never last long with the young ones as it quickly becomes a game of "drive the teacher bat shit nutty".

(Can I get an Amen from the teachers out there?)

Between my calm demeanor and my super awesome "teacher look " ( which also works on Undergraduate students and random co-workers) I can manage most situations with aplomb.
You might even find yourself compelled to apologize to me for unknown reasons after I affix the "look" upon you. Unless you happen to be my child.

If you are my child ( and occasionally my spouse), your ability to ignore the flashing warning sirens and shaking of the rattle on my tail is legendary. If you are my child, your ability to think I am kidding when I say "You need to calm down and listen to my words, you aren't listening to me and I am getting angry" is something to behold.

So what put her so far over the edge that I drove the car around the block a couple of times and then threw her water bottle at her when I finally DID come back?

A Spider.

And not even a big one.

We were leaving for camp/work. Things were going smoothly. Lunch, backpack, dry bathing suit and towel were packed and ready. We got into the car and I began to back out. As in actively driving and looking behind me as I attempted the taunting of death that is pulling out of my driveway. Looking behind me scanning for delivery trucks who will TRY TO KILL ME when she lets out a blood curdling scream, opens the door and throws herself from the slightly moving vehicle.

Ok. So it is true that she scared the shit out of me by leaping out of the car. This is a child who, at age 11, will still sit in the back seat and complain that she can't unbuckle herself. Therefore her speedy and deft ability to free herself from the seatbelt AND get the door open was a surprise.

Now you have two screaming females in the driveway. One in the car - with car halfway out of driveway, the other in the driveway - running away.

I can't recall the exact words I was screaming, but I believe they were several expletives, her name and "Prithee gentle child of mine, what troubles you?" or some other less gentile version of that phrase.

From a good 15 feet away, and with face COVERED in snot/tears, she screams: "SPIIIIIIIDDDDEEEERRRRRR"

Ok. Now I know the enemy. And I spot it. On the door. And it is not a death-leap from car worthy spider. I've seen those kind, and this ain't it.

"Emily. Stop Crying, Get back over here - open the door and knock that spider OUT"

More intense sobbing. Mucous emerging from passages. Some kind of jumbled, hiccuping ball of words is shouted at me. I fix my stare at her.

"Emily Damali" ( Dear lord, the middle NAME is coming out - this is mother speak for you, missy, are in some serious trouble and better get yourself together STAT)

"You find a stick and walk over here, open the door and knock that spider out of the car."

More incoherent mucous mumbling. Did I mention yet that this is all Pre-first cup of coffee? Because it is.

"I swear to you Emily Damali, if you don't knock it off this second, I am driving off without you."

Mind you, the door to the car is still wide open.

From Emily, there is pointing and sobbing and screaming. I back out like the Dukes of Hazard and make my passenger door slam shut. I drive away. Not really, of course. I drive around the block hoping that she will come to her senses and start to breathe again.

I circle the block and pull back into the driveway. She is sitting on the front step. Glaring.
Oh yes, my little jedi. Your teacher look, while good, does not match mine. You scare me not.

"Emily. Get a stick. Get back over here and knock that spider out of the car. It is a teeny tiny fraction of the size of you. Yes. I understand you do not like spiders. However, you need to problem solve this. Now get over here and TAKE CARE OF IT."

There is an edge to my voice. You parents know that edge. Shit, I know the edge from my own mother. It is the "Dear Lord Baby Jesus, do not make me come over there and beat your ass" edge. It is the "I am trying everything in my human power to not completely lose my shit and run through the yard trying to catch you while you scream about spiders" edge.

She stands and first tries to tell me there are no sticks in the yard. I simply stare at her. I mean, come on. If you are going to try to bullshit me, give it a real effort. She find the previously invisible stick and marches back over. Opens the door and throws the stick in the direction of the spider. Which misses the spider completely. Most likely it provided the spider with a cooling breeze as it soared by.

I stare at her. We are now in a battle of wills, my daughter and I. I immediately feel the balance of her teen years hanging before us. Will I be one of those mothers - fixing every problem, smoothing every wrinkle?

Oh No, Mo-fo. You are going to do this if it is the last thing you do. I pick up the water bottle she has tucked in the cup holder. And I am sorry to say, I throw it at her legs. And it makes contact. Thunk. She now has forgotten the danger of the spider. The danger of her mother is in the forefront of her attention.

"HEEEEYYYYY! THAT HURTS!!!" she screams.

I am in full mother rage. Teeth clenched. Nose breathing. Lips pursed. Palms and armpits sweating.

She stares at me. She looks in the back of the car. She looks back at me.

"Can I use your sneaker to get the spider out?"

"Of course. Please. Be my guest."

And in less than 5 seconds, the spider is knocked from the car door and made a "former spider" by a Converse sneaker wielding girl.

She gets in the car. Our silence is deep. Our wrinkle in time not yet corrected.

I drive.

I offer the olive branch with this question:

"What could I have done differently in that situation?" and allow her to criticize my mothering safely - for both of us.

By the time we get to camp, we kiss and I wish her a lovely day.
She lingers. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, my brave girl."

Not seen, Not believed

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Terrance was born in Detroit, Michigan, on a fine October day back in 1961. Attending the birth were his mother, father , and various nurses and doctors.

He grew up in the same city in which he was born.

Later, he went east to some fancy pants school where he was often one of the only black dudes to be seen for miles and miles around. He got an undergraduate degree in Law and sociology. He got a Masters degree in Sociology and even had three years of lawyer school. He got a Doctorate in Sociology. He taught at some colleges and university's and was a good professor, from what I have been told. He got good at socializing amongst the white people. he even got one to marry him.

BUT, I think he isn't telling me the truth. I think he was born in Kenya. Or maybe Mali. Niger? Chad? Some place with Black people.

Why do I think this?

He doesn't have a birth certificate.

Yeah, his mom has some "story" about how he was born in Detroit and everything...but I don't know. I mean Yeah - I see him walking around. Yeah, I reproduced with him. But I can't be sure that he IS who he says he IS. I can't be sure that the schools and other institutions that he has attended have adequately documented who he IS, for real.

His "Mom" - if that is who she really that I think about it, I didn't see her gestate and push him out after all - said she went to the records division and was told that the "Hospital", if it was really that - "burned down" in the late 60's and that the records were "lost".

"burned down"? "Burned Down"? ! More like she BURNED it down to hide the evidence of his non-birth. She was a member of the Black Panthers, after all. It was part of her crazy plot to rid the world of whiteys.

According to "her" - if she is female, I have never seen her naked after all, she then went to the state capitol and tried to get some kind of record stating Terrance was born in Michigan - which they wouldn't give her, because they don't have any kind of record ...because they were "burned" with the hospital fire.

Now, we did have a document - a small3X5 card that was alleged to be his birth certificate. It was pretty beat up and when we mailed it in for his passport...we never got it back. Lost, they said. But we all now can see where this is going? The Black Panther Conspiracy that set these wheels in motion in 1961, with the planned insemination of my husbands "mother" and the subsequent burning of the hospital had intercepted the birth certificate and destroyed it.

I see it all now. My husband is not a black African American Man from Detroit, but part of the African Continents long range plan to take over the United States and oppress teh white peoplez.

Why didn't I see this earlier? Was it my liberal, bleeding heart conscience? No, it couldn't be that.

He drugged me. He and his wiley black family drugged me and convinced me he was an American and that I should fall in love with him and get married and produce a baby. How could I have been so blind not to request and see a certified, official, cross your heart and hope to die copy of a birth certificate in a zip-loc bag, hand presented to me by the doctor who delivered him, and then certified by a pristine DVD copy of the entirety of his birth, complete with proof that this DVD was produced in 1961.

Wait. There were no DVDs in 1961. Except in Africa, I bet.

Helpz! Helpz!

Hey, wait a second. Does this mean I will get to be first lady?

I was racially profiled

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Several years ago I was stopped by the police.

I was just driving along and bam - pulled over.

Well, actually I was speeding a bit - but downhill. And I was only coasting. And I was on my way to jury duty...where I was juror number 5 in a first degree murder trial. Where the accused were young Hispanic and Black men, and a drug deal gone terribly wrong. It was, however, their good fortune to have committed this (alleged) crime in New Hampshire, where the 98% white populations was Sure to give them a fair and equitable trial. And They pulled me. The white wife of one of the Two Black dudes who lived in all of Strafford.

So there I was, on my way to perform my enforced civic duty when I was so rudely pulled over. And given a ticket. Which seemed wildly unfair to me, given where I was going. Did he realize the photos of blood and brain I had to look at for the past week? That I had to stick my head in a tiny Ford Escort, and look down on the seat where one man died after being shot in the head and neck and two others fled the scene. That my delicate white lady sensibility had been roundly abused by having to learn details of drug deals and babys mommas, my ears assaulted by slang terms like "crush", meaning "to have sex" and why these young men were wearing such baggy trousers as was the style in their "group".

Flash forward to months later when the trial was long over and I was to have my day in court to protest my ticket. I dressed carefully that day. I wore a lovely light purple velveteen dress with matching purple leather pumps. I was wearing the pearls with the matching earrings that my husband had given me for a Christmas years prior. As it was winter, I had my cashmere long coat on with a small, but tasteful, bag to finish the look.

I arrived at the courthouse and presented my bag for inspection. I smiled and flirted with the elderly court guard. I am not a flirty woman, but I was prepared for what I was marching in to battle and a bit of practice couldn't hurt.

I was handed my purse and wished good luck by the baliff. I walked into the courtroom and walked to the front to await my turn. The judge had not yet arrived, so I glanced to my left and right, seeing the police officer who had detained and ticketed me over to the right. There were other people too seated towards the back. Women and men - all white, but dressed in a terrible choice of clothes. Lots of Denim, sneakers and Nascar shirts. Were they aware they were in court?

I was called first - Naturally. I was sitting right up front, after all. The prosecutor offerred his summary of the case - That I was speeding and was given a ticket. I walked across the court room and was sworn in. I sat in the witness box, and offerred my response. Which was that I "might" have been speeding, a little. But That I was a juror on this murder trial and it was very stressful...and that I just don't normally break the law, but this trial - you see - the pictures. Plus I work for the State , part of DCYF (which houses child protection). I help enforce the laws.

I smiled at the judge. I may have even cocked my head to show my earrings and matching necklace.

The judge smiled back. "No more Speeding, Ma'am - we want you to get home to your family safe and sound!"

I smiled back. I nodded.

He dismissed the ticket and I walked out a vindicated woman.


There is sarcasm and irony in this story. There is also a bit of self acknowledged shame that I played my part so well. I went into that court room to portray a very specific image, which I achieved most successfully. As the wife of a Black American , I have been in the car ( or right behind) when He has been stopped for DWB (Driving while Black). I have seen him waved through the airport security when he is with me or our daughter, but stopped and searched when he is alone. I deserved that ticket. I WAS speeding. My skin color and socio-economic status were my free pass that day in the courtroom. As to the trial in which I was a juror, I have written about that before here. I am still a bit haunted by what happened in the jury room.

Lost Playmates

Sunday, August 02, 2009

So here is a not so shocking bit of news in the Blog-o-sphere...

When you spazz out and completely flee the Blog World in 2007, because you have a full blown manic f-ing depressive episode...

When you drop off the entire Bloggy planet and don't read any of your friends, even though you Love them...but participating in the bloggy world become just too much to bear because that means, well INTERACTING and shit...

When you decide after two years, which, lets face - is antediluvian in the time epochs of the internets - to wander back and try to find all of your peeps, your homies, your original Phi Delta Badass...

They ain't all there.

In recent weeks, my life seems to be filtering down to something. Wheels turning. Pulp falling to bottom of glass. I twist and squirm in my skin, trying to figure out what it is that I seem to be morphing into, but it still has no recognizable shape or form. I can only tell you is that it is Different.

I feel like I walked back into a playground that was waiting for me to arrive...but there is no one left on the swings. No one on the slides. No one over there by the fence telling ghostly tales and urban myths to each other.

I wandered last night through the places I used to live - old friends who started off as ideas and became people through conversations and interactions. From what I can piece together many of them fell prey to lives outside of the bloggy world - which is good and right and just. In the first heady wave of blogging, many of us set aside partners and children to visit these new friends and laugh. Those who have set aside blogging to be parents and partners, I miss your company, but I understand. Some seem to have fallen into dark places through depressions and miscarriages. Places that if I were braver I would wade into and sit with them to offer comfort and companionship.

Others? Well, others friendships ran their courses. People meandered into different places in lives, goals and careers. I understand that too.

I stand at the edge of my play yard. I look out into the dusk.

I yell

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I withdrew so deeply into myself that I locked the door to the yard and refused to go out. I'm sorry I missed babies being born, babies being lost and the million other joys and sorrows that happened in your lives. Marriages. Divorces. The terrible. The frightening, the sublime. I didn't mean to abandon you."

And I wait here in the edge of the yard...just on the edge of the dark peering out waiting for a noise. A whisper. Anything. I pick up a small stone and throw it up into the air and watch the bats dive and turn towards it.

I can wait.
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