How do you know?

"Mama, how do you know if a boy likes you?"

It's Sofia, my twelve year old, and this is clearly a conversation she's been waiting to have.  Her sisters are both getting ready for bed and she's looking at me with the expectancy one can only have when they believe they're speaking to a wise person.

My first response, because I am who I am, was a sarcastic one.

When they remove their wedding ring before they approach you.

When they gently smack your behind rather than maul it.

When they respond to your texts within the first three hours of receipt.

When they pay for more than just your vodka.

Thankfully, my filter was engaged so none of that made it out of my mouth.  Instead, I managed, "sweetie, if I knew that answer, I'd be rich."

Short of a boy just outright declaring his feelings, it's a maze of subtle clues.  

Does he pick on you relentlessly?  Than he might like you...or he could be a typical preteen jerk.

Do you catch him looking at you?  Than he's either infatuated or you have something stuck to your face.

Does he find reasons to talk to you?  Than he either likes you or wants to cheat off of you on a test.

Boys are simple messes.  And, they are usually unaware of this.  They are basically very cut and dry in most matters.  Sports - yes.  Obnoxious behavior - yes.  Noxious odors - yes.  Deep conversations - no.  Boy bands - no.  Salad - no.  Girls - I dunno, maybe, gross, well.. maybe not super gross, but kind of.

"But if he has any sense, taste, or eyesight at all - yes, he likes you."

And, if it helps at all, boys don't know a thing about girls either.  And, that's just the way we like it.

hidden / displayed

On my hipbones.  In my ears.  Behind my knees.  Beneath my finger nails.  Between my shoulder blades.

I carry the kind of pain that only echoes through a broken heart.  It's in all the places no one can see.

In the arch of my left eyebrow.  The tang of my sarcasm.  The exaggerated swing of my hips.  The slow and steady beat of my step.

I throw the flagrant breeze of a cold heart.  It's in all the trophies on my display shelf.

You don't need to know that I've been hurt.  No one wants to hear that someone had the power to break me... more than one someone.  They don't need to see the damage they wrought.

So I emptied out the center of my chest.  Packed up my breakables and threw away the key.  

Empty means nothing can be broken.

Nothing broken means nothing to fear.

Fearless means keeping the power to myself.

It means the last person who broke me is the last person to break me.

So, there - just behind the blank stare, between the full lips, in the center of the warm palms.

I keep the unmendable heart that is no longer up for grabs.  

Pain is hidden.  Strength is displayed.  And, love is off limits.  

Yes, I have moments where I desperately miss looking up.  There are so many times when, even if the view was different, I'd give anything to tiptoe again.  Then I remember where that got me, and I arch my brow and settle down again.  

I have nothing to be scared of.  There's nothing left to steal.  All I have is on display, and you don't want any of that.

Effortless.

Know what takes nothing?

Absurdity.  It's effortless.  You can trip over your own unabashed tongue with the slightest of giggles.  Make a face, go ahead, do it.  Cross your eyes or fish-face your lips or wiggle your brows.  See... Easy.  Being silly is not just for children, stop letting them have all the fun.  They're too young to appreciate it anyway.

Honesty.  Effortless, unfiltered, by the light of the moon truth.  Try it....go on.  Stop worrying about what he'll say or what she'll think or what they'll throw back at you.  Speak.  Tell him he's adorable.  Tell her she's selfish.  Put yourself on the line - your own line on your own terms.  See.... You survived and your shoulders are lighter for it.

Mistakes.  Huge errors in judgement, momentary lapses in self control, even life altering cluserf*cks can come as easy as your next breath.  Around every corner is another chance to mess up.  Do it...it's alright.  Problems slide into your passenger seat with the ease of ice cream dripping down your cone.  Clean up the mess and move on.  It may take a minute, but you'll round the next corner with the same ease.  Find a new map and keep walking.

Love.  That's right, I said it.  Falling in love is effortless.  It takes no more than a sideways glance to land head first in adoration.  The weight of a strong hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd.  The silent breaths held waiting for your turn to tell your story.  The gentle flutter of eyelids the first time you awaken in arms not your own.  The subtle change of temperature in long gazes and unspoken secrets.  Yes, falling is easy.  Staying - a different story, so land as many times as you can.

So much of life is made complicated.  So many pieces of ourselves would fit together perfectly, if not for our need to force backwards, upside down and turned around moves into holes left empty for reasons known too well.  Be easy.  Save the effort for the true trials.  Let it come.  Whether it be joy or sorrow, love or loss, beginnings or ends - it's coming either way.  So, let it.  Be easy.  You don't have to fight every struggle.  It's ok to lose sometimes, there are so many lessons in defeat.  Find them.  

Embrace the effortless.  Try it.  Absurd, honest, mistaken love.  It's easy.

Married, not dead.

You are right.  You are married, not dead.  Absolutely.  Look to your little heart's content.  Visually appreciate every scintillating inch of flesh that struts past.  Drink it all in with eyes that match the sky.  Really.  There's no harm in looking.  And, you didn't turn in your 20/20 at the end of the aisle.  You weren't required to sacrifice your perfect vision at the altar.  You are married.  Not dead.

Know what is dead, though?  Your right to pursue other women.  Yes, you traded in each and every opportunity you could have had when you chose the one you married.  You sacrificed the freedom of choice when you CHOSE.

So, if you want to watch me from across the room... cool, but stay over there.  Don't sidle up and introduce yourself with a smile designed to make panties drop.  You want to talk to me?  Cool; but, somewhere in the first three sentences, you have to use the words "my wife".  You want to ask for my number so we can "get together"?  Cool, but unless you're planning on inviting me over for brunch with the wife, save your cell plan minutes.  And, if you want to start something you already know you cannot finish...cool.  I can do the same thing at the most inopportune time you can imagine.

I am not the married man whisperer.

Not only can I not help you get over whatever you deem to be a problem in your marriage, I don't want to.  You don't want to be married?   Fine - do her a favor and leave her.  You don't want to be faithful?  Fine - do her a favor and let her know you've decided she isn't enough for you anymore.  You just want to see what I would be like?  I don't blame you, so here's my advice:  Do yourself a favor - grab a tissue and let your imagination soar.  Because I'm not interested in being anyone's other anything.

Marriage isn't the death of a man.  It's just the death of the single man.  You still get to do all the things you did when you were dating, you just only get to do them with your wife.  Not the next hot thing that crosses your path.

And, hey, you still get to have other women in your life.  You can have all the friends your marriage can handle.  Some of my favorite people are married men.  We joke and talk and text and support each other.  The line is quite clearly defined, though.  They don't touch, flirt, ogle or in any way disrespect the women they chose to marry.  No, this has nothing to do with being friends.  This is about dating.  

I am not suggesting it isn't possible for married men and single women to be friends.  I am saying it isn't possible for married men to date. Not to date me, at least. 

One more thing, if you're not going to wear a ring, than you must start each and every initial conversation with, "My wife would..."  An example:  "My wife would kill me if she knew I walked over here, smiled, flirted in a seemingly genuine way, asked for your number, then was completely surprised that you're not a complete idiot and you do your homework - thus discovering that she exists."  This way, the woman who was minding her own business before you sauntered over would be aware that your sparkle comes dredged in bullshit.

Bottom line:  You will get caught - if not by the woman at home, than by the woman with Internet access and the experience to know better.

Listen

You know that voice in your head?  The one that says, "turn left here...I know you usually turn right, but not this time."  The one that says, "no, don't speed though this light, wait."  The voice that says, "I know this is different, but go with it."

Listen to that voice.

Maybe you'll miss a terrible collision.  Maybe you won't get the next speeding ticket.  Maybe you'll meet someone who will change your life.  Hell, maybe you just won't be rushed to get where you don't want to be anyway.  It doesn't matter.  Just listen.

Because, maybe something will happen.

I've had a lot of instances when I wondered if it was coincidence or if the universe was guiding me to small moments.  

This evening, I turned around when I normally would've gone the long way home.  I sat at a light for what felt like forever when normally I would've already been in my driveway.  I had my windows down even though it was way past the temperature that usually has me face first in the air conditioner vents. And someone I thought I would never see again drove right back into my life.  If I had done any one of the "normal" things, I wouldn't be grinning right now.  If I had ignored the voice that gave me directions, he would still be in the past.

So, listen.  Turn left.  Slow down.  Go with it.

Maybe it won't save your life, but it just might turn your evening around.

Confidence or vanity

Conversation between Sofia and Maya last night during pick up time:

"Maya, you have to help pick up too!  You're just sitting there!  The sun doesn't shine on only you, ya know!"

"Yes, it does.  See....my skin is darker than yours....so the sun shines on me more."

From the other room, I smiled.  Half a second later, I cringed.

Because, see, Miss Maya does believe the world revolves around her - and not just in that general way every kid thinks it.  She genuinely believes she is (or should be) the center of everyone's universe.  And, I worry that I'm not doing enough to curb that misconception.

Are some kids just born with insanely large egos?  Maya is stunningly gorgeous, smart, hilarious, and caring.  But I try not to over-emphasize any of those traits.  Specifically, lately, I find myself not telling her how pretty she is because I don't want her to lean on that.  I know too many girls who grew up only being "the pretty one".  Know what happens?  They become really ugly on the inside.  I imagine that, if all you hear your whole life is how beautiful your packaging is, you think having beauty on the inside is irrelevant.

So, I don't tell Maya every day how her face stops me in my tracks whenever she rounds the corner.  Instead, I tell her how impressed I am that she got all of her spelling words right.  I no longer point out how most people wish they had skin like hers.  But I give out high-fives galore for reading a book from cover to cover.  Yet she still begs me to take a picture of her whenever she strikes a pose.  And, she seems completely flabbergasted that someone wouldn't compliment her on each new outfit.

My youngest child truly seems to have been born with an ego too big for her tiny neck to hold up.  And, I worry she'll become one of those girls that no one likes - not because she's too beautiful, but because she knows she is.

"Maya, that's ridiculous.  The sun revolves around the earth.  Not you."

"I know that, Sofia.  You're not the only smart one.  I'm just saying it likes me better cuz you're so mean."

"Whatever.  Just pick up or I'm telling mama."

The room never did get picked up, by the way.  Sofia gave up, Eva fell asleep, and Maya had to read me one more book... About a fancy girl no one understood.

2,116

I'm convinced the universe gives us school mornings to make it easier to leave our kids with strangers for the majority of the day.  Why else would we have to wake up long before the sun, place plates of hot, healthy breakfast in front of cranky, half asleep kids, pry open jaws to force in a toothbrush, spend twenty minutes getting their braid exactly the way they want it, search through disorganized drawers to find matching socks, run back into the house to get the calculator they forgot they have to have, and wait in the world's stupidest daily traffic jam five days a week?  Seriously, if not for the dramatic lessons in self control, I would probably home school.  Well...maybe not, but if I did, lessons would definitely start after 10.

Anyway, this was a typical morning.  By the time I got Maya to release my hand, I was free.  I practically ran to my car.  (I say practically because there was an abnormal amount of hot dads at the school this morning, and one cannot simply rush past such views, but that's a story for another day).  I leisurely strolled the aisles at the grocery store and blared the stereo in my car for the first Monday this school year.

Then, while putting away the groceries, I found Eva's retainer case.  Uh oh.  She has been so excited that she doesn't have to wear it all day since school started.  Unfortunately, she's still used to leaving her retainer in, so she must have forgotten to take it out this morning.  It hurt my heart that she was missing out on her little reprieve from the appliance.  So, while my pie shell was firming in the refrigerator, I walked the case up to the school for her.

Eva always has a million questions.  A million.  Before noon.  I love her, but really.  Enough with the questions.  But, as I was walking the case up to her, I thought about some of her more frequent questions.  The one that I've heard the most is "How far is it from our house to the school?".  I've already told her how long it takes me to run there.  Today, I timed the walk.  29 minutes.  On the way back, I counted the steps 2,116.  When I got home, I counted the blisters.  2.  Because that's too far to walk in cheap flip flops.  I can also tell her it's far enough to get stopped by two different guys who know me despite the fact that I've never seen them before in my life.  It is the right amount of distance to allow too many thoughts to drift in and out of my short term memory.  And it's far enough that, at 88 degrees, I was smelling less than fresh by the time I got home.  Most importantly, though, the distance from our door to the elementary school is exactly far enough to remember why I'm so lucky to be able to do silly things like count the steps between us.

2,116.  Close enough to walk but far enough that I can still miss them by 3:25 pm.