Yes

I watched a Jim Carey movie this weekend, Yes Man. I didn't see it when it was in theaters and I thought I recalled that the reviews weren't terribly flattering so I never managed to rent it on DVD either. But there it was on HBO and nothing else was on, so I watched it.

I'm not saying it was a particularly good movie, but I will say it got me to thinking. The main character, Carl, attends a self-help seminar where he is challenged to say "Yes'" to everything. Yes to every invitation, yes to every opportunity, yes to everyone.

Of course he misunderstands the "everything" and takes it literally, saying yes to things one obviously shouldn't (endangering your health, allowing the elderly, dentured next door lady to, well, uh, nevermind...) but you get the idea. The general lesson is that by saying yes to life, and saying yes to people, Carl's life goes from being somewhat lonely and meaningless, to being full and engaged.

I say yes to a lot, but I also say no to a lot. My excuses are the usual litany of: I'm tired, it's late or I'm too busy. The trouble is, when you look back on your life, it's not the times you said "no" that you'll remember, but all the times you said "yes."

I lost an old friend last week. I've written a blog or two about it but I haven't been able to get the words quite right. Even writing about it right now feels wrong because these words are all about me, and not about my friend. But the overwhelming feeling I've been having is one of regret. Regret for not making time for my friend. Regret for not staying in touch. Regret for not being there.

All the times we said "no" are the times we regret. Do we ever regret "yes?" Yes if it comes from a friend, an opportunity, a charity? The words "Make Time" keep running through my head. Make time for friends. Make time to catch up. Make time for the park. Make time for volunteerism. Make time for coffee. Make time for your child's classroom parties. Make time for life.

It will all be gone before I know it. My friend had just turned 40. My friend was teaching and coaching up until three weeks ago. I did not make time for my friend. There is no way I can make that up to her. The only thing I am left with is the rest of my life, and the friends who are still here.

In her honor, in her memory, I vow to make time. I will say yes. I will reach out. I write these words and realize they may sound hollow. Perhaps for people who've dealt with death more than I have, they will recognize the folly in thinking I can change because of the immediate pain of loss. But I think for those of us who've managed to overcome a whole helluva a lot in life, we have a sort of faith in ourselves and know that we are capable of amazing growth and change. I don't think it's ever too late. I believe in the redemption of souls and in second chances.

I think my friend is whispering those words to me. I can hear her telling me it's not too late.

I've been in survival mode for so long now, it seems I'd forgotten how to live. Sure I've managed happiness, I've managed to find love again, I've managed to not only raise a child on my own but I've watched him thrive. But life is more than just our immediate demands and our immediate family. It's time to say "yes" to a much broader range of people and experiences. Yes to all life has to offer. Yes to friends. Yes to work. Yes to risk. Yes to inconvenience. Yes to strangers. Yes to things I think I won't like but maybe I will, if I give it a chance.

Perhaps that's all life is in the end: a long list of opportunities you can either embrace or reject. Those opportunities are attached to people. Those people are the relationships that make up your life and fill it with meaning. Saying yes is really about saying yes to the people you love or the people you may grow to love.

So yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

It's never too late to say yes.

The Love Bank

I'm getting married this month. As The Fiance and I contemplate this, we can't help but discuss what kind of marriage we hope to have. We both feel strongly that we have a pretty damn good shot at it. We were both fortunate enough to go through some pretty traumatic relationships and their consequential breakups/divorces. Fortunately for us, we didn't come through them unscathed and we didn't come through them with any illusions about ourselves. 

We came out of these experiences with a strong desire, if not zeal, to never let it happen again. I think what we both learned is that yes, we probably chose the wrong people the last time around. But I think we also learned that neither one of us is perfect, and if we're going to make a relationship work, we're going to have to actually do some work.

The Fiance reminded me of a great site he'd told me about not long after we first met. It's called Marriage Builders and it's based on the work of Dr. Harley. One of the concepts that made a lasting impression on me is the idea of The Love Bank.

Dr. Harley's idea is that we all have a love bank, a reservoir of needs, that must be filled in order for us to feel happy and loved. Having our needs met not only makes us personally happy, it makes us generous with others. If your love bank is full, you're more likely to want to fill your significant other's love bank too. It creates a culture of giving, where the giving is free and easy because it's so abundant. It's how you usually feel in a new relationship.

Now if someone grows unhappy, feels neglected or simply starts to grow apart as is often the case in long-term relationships, that person is not so likely to fill the significant other's love bank. It becomes a, "Screw you. Why should I do something for you, when you're not doing anything for me" culture.

That's bad news, and I suspect we've all been there. I know I have.

So sometimes we've got to take one for the team. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but I think sometimes, especially early on in relationships (or before things have gone way, way south) we've got to do the nice things for our significant other, even if we don't necessarily feel like it. You've got to keep doing it, just like you've got to keep exercising, or picking up your house or paying your bills. It's maintenance, baby.

I know maintenance doesn't sound particularly romantic, but I think it's necessary. It's not unlike making your bed. Sure, your bed doesn't really have to be made every day. You're just going to get back into anyway. I was a serial non-bedmaker for decades. I was a bedmaking rebel and I held its flag high. 

It wasn't until the past couple of years that I realized it's not about making the bed. It's not about the bed at all. It's about Right Effort. The Buddha said that without effort, nothing can be accomplished. If you don't make your bed in the morning, you leave your bedroom in disharmony. You sense that disharmony when you come home at night. Not making the bed can be like leaving dishes in the sink. It's a pattern of behavior and that behavior is neglect. Neglect begets more neglect. Soon your house is a mess, all the time.

Making regular, consistent, reliable deposits in your significant other's love bank is simply a matter of putting right effort into the relationship. For instance, whenever The Fiance is at my house, I get up first, go downstairs and make a pot of coffee. I bring him a cup of hot coffee when it's done. I never make a pot of coffee during the week when I'm home alone, I do it for him because it makes him feel loved. And guess what? When I'm at his house, he does the same for me.

Sure, it's a small gesture, but it's like making the bed. Bringing each other a cup of coffee is making a deposit in our love banks (yes, I realize this sounds dirty, you pervs). Dr. Harley covers all manner of ways you can make deposits in each other's love banks (stop it), and he also recognizes that all of our love banks are not the same (really now, you should be ashamed of yourselves).

Some of us don't like coffee.

Some of us like back rubs, or going mountain biking together, or receiving presents, or hugs, or sex (happy now?), conversation and attending one another's events. All manner of things. That's why it's important to find out what's important to your significant other, and vice versa.

You've got to get used to making the bed every day and making it the way your significant other likes it. It's got to become habit. Habits are hard to break. But they can be broken, of course. I'm under no illusions that this is easy. Even someone with OCD-lite can stop making the bed if their psyche changes. Depression can lead to neglect, and neglect can lead to disarray.

It's all connected.

Right Effort permeates all facets of our lives, from our romantic relationships to our friendships, to our parenting and our careers. You've got to make the bed every day. You've got to make deposits.

Otherwise you've got nothing. You're broke and your house is trashed.

Elastic

What a difference elastic-waist pants make!

I'm not kidding. I feel kinder, gentler and more tolerant of mankind in general today. I feel optimistic, as though, yes, I will in fact lose the baby weight within three months of heaving my daughter out into the world. I feel relaxed and cool, as though I'm not afraid of losing my job. I feel an expanding and yea, limitless capacity for love. I want to hold you all collectively to my bosom. Well, symbolically, that is. Don't touch me please.

(I totally had to dictionary.com "bosom." I tried typing it four different ways and none of them were right. Now I want to find a reason to use "bosomy" in this blog.)

I have a bosomy friend who is on Match.com. She often sends me the choicest of her matches. Today she received this missive from a prospective lover:

"Hi.

I like to ride my bicycle most of all. When I'm home I like to relax and play with my cats and have a cigar and a glass of water and watch a little TV before bedtime."

And there it ended.

I have to admit, I don't know what confuses me the most, that he drinks water with his cigar or that he has cats (multiple) and he likes to play with them. The macho cigar, together with the cats and the glass of water just jars me.

Clearly, something is not right with the man.

My friend bemoans being on Match.com and says to me, "I just want to get off Match someday and meet my prince like you did." I had to remind her that I met my "prince" (he's going to love this) on Match.com so she's going to have to stay on Match in order to meet her prince and then sign off.

Thank god The Fiance never mentioned smoking cigars while drinking water nor owning a small herd of cats. Though he was separated and not divorced when I met him, and I had vowed never to date a separated man again after I met a few too many separated men who only wanted to talk about their Exes while on lovely dates with me.

The moral of the story, you see, is that everything is better when you're elastic. Give yourself a little room to breathe. Open yourself and expand your mind to men with cats and not-quite-divorced lovers.

You never know, you might be surpised by what fits.

(Or, you might just wind up wearing elastic waist pants. You know, because the not-quite-divorced lover knocked you up.)

*Snicker*

So You Have a Vagina

I'm having a girl.

Despite my protests that it wouldn't make any difference what sex my child was, within hours of finding out I had already dropped some serious change at Baby Gap, Old Navy and Nordstroms. So there is one difference between girls and boys, and that's that girls have a fierce selection of wardrobe options and retail adorableness available to their parents.

Did anyone else know that Roxy made baby clothes? I mean, seriously, how am I suppose to resist?

*Sigh*

My son was ever the diplomat upon finding out he was having a sister. He didn't even pause, he didn't pout, he didn't look disappointed. He simply squealed, "I'm having a sister!" and that was that. Now that he stands about eye-level with my navel, he frequently hugs me and puts his face in my belly while announcing, "Hi baby! This is your brother, Cracky!"

Both Cracky and The Fiance like to put their mouths right up to my belly and announce their presence to the baby. I wonder if it startles her? They both want her to know them, so I encourage this behavior.

And also I'm fat.

21 weeks into this pregnancy and I have officially popped. Unfortunately I'm probably not huge enough to be absolutely-positively-super-obviously pregnant, so I find myself humiliated to work out at the gym. There's no mistaking the volleyball sticking out of my tank top. It wouldn't bother me so much if I were certain everyone there were certain I was pregnant. But I'm not. So I wonder if people just assume I have muscular arms and legs and a fondness for beer. I also vacillate between trying to suck in my gut and pushing it out even further to make sure I really do look pregnant.

*Sigh*

And I've had to increase the assistance on the pull-up machine each week. Either I'm getting weaker each week or I'm getting fatter.

Probably both.

*Repeat Sigh*

Being pregnant isn't as cute as I remembered. I'm thinking I'm on to some sort of Mother Nature Conspiracy. You really do forget what it's like to be pregnant, give birth and raise a newborn after a few years. This is how you get tricked into thinking you can do it again.

Well, at least she'll be well dressed. And I'll have really buff arms and legs. I've already determined that I'm not recovering from pregnancy and delivery without a personal trainer. If Heidi Klum can do it repeatedly, what not me?

And I don't even have to strut around in a bikini with angel's wings, so I've got that going for me too. Though my new-found buxomness would suit me well in their lineup. Oddly enough, I'm not enjoying my voluptuousness quite as much as I thought I would. I find big boobs somewhat embarrassing. They stick out so rudely, so obviously. It's like they're trying too hard.

I miss my polite boobs. My aerodynamic chest. My sleek, svelte, cheetah-like self. Made for speed and predation. This larger, rounder, softer, more slothful me is made for fertility. And naps. The Fiance seems to like the latter.

Boys are so weird. 

I think I'm fat, he thinks I'm phat. 

Mars vs. Venus.

XY vs. XX. 

Guess we do have some differences, aside from retail.

On Second Chances

There's something much more romantic and uplifting about second marriages to me. I know to say that is practically akin to sacrilege, but for those of us who have been through divorce, we know it's true.

Isn't there something inherently beautiful about giving love a second chance? Isn't there something absolutely life-affirming when you've been broken-hearted, yet you pick yourself up and dare to risk it again?

It moves me, I tell you.

I don't know many people who have gone through a divorce who haven't said to themselves at least once (even if it was just a whisper): "Never again." I think that's a normal human response to pain. "Ouch that hurt" = "Don't do that again." Pretty simple, really.

But when it comes to love, marriage and babies — if you don't do that again, it could mean you might wind up living alone with a lot of cats.

Just kidding.

(Sort of.)

I love the triumph of the human spirit. I love that love can conquer all. Well sort of. In a global sense, I mean. Not necessarily in your first marriage. Ha. Just kidding. (Sort of.) I love that you can be chewed up, spit out and left for dead on the love highway, only to scrape yourself back up again and say: "I believe in me. I believe I am lovable. I believe I deserve love even if I screwed it up once before. Or ten times before. I believe I have learned something valuable here on the pavement of failed marriages. And therefore I will try, try again — except this time I'm a little bit older and a heck of a lot wiser."

The Fiance says he loves any story about the redemption of souls.

First marriages aren't about the redemption of souls. First marriages are about innocence. First marriages are often about a couple of kids who have no idea what life has in store for them. First marriages are about life-virgins. Second marriages are a little beat up, it's true. We've been rode hard and put up wet, you could say. But the two hearts standing there, risking once more to commit a lifetime to another person, they really know how much this can hurt. How much is at risk.

And yet they venture forth anyway.

Their faith isn't dead.

Their belief in love, intact.

You can't break the human spirit, at least not this one. And not the Fiance's. We won't mock marriage or innocence or second chances. We won't laugh at unintended babies either. None of these things are foolish, or accidents, or laughable.

These are acts of redemption.

It's a baptism by love and we can all be born again.

(You just have to believe.)

Life Humbles Us. If We're Lucky.

The Fiance went to his 25th college reunion this weekend. Of the stories he told me and the friends he reconnected with, what stands out the most to me is his observation that everyone had been humbled by life.

25 years after college graduation, the kids who knew where they were going and were self-assured that theirs would be a life of success and privilege had evolved into people who had suffered. Loss had come to them in all manner of ways, from death, to divorce to career disappointments. The Fiance noted that even ten years ago all of these folks still had life by the tail, but now they realized that it's life that has us.

It's a humbling thing, this living. When you look back at the plans of your youth, how many of us have followed a straight path from our planned point A to our planned point B? I'm embarrassed to say that I used to tell my friends in high school that my goal was to have a "Jag by 30." This seemed a perfectly reasonable goal, and I was talented enough to get it.

Now I walk around with a banner that reads: "Busted-up Honda by 38."

I laugh to write that, and realize that could really be the banner for my life. My duct-taped Civic is a metaphor for my life. It's got 115,000 miles on it, it still runs, and hell, most of the mechanics tell me, "That's nothing for a Honda."

It's all a matter of perspective.

I may be a busted-up hooptie of a girl now, but I've got a good engine and a reputation for tenaciousness. There are all manner of things I never thought  I would do, endure, survive. I never thought I'd be divorced. You can believe at 21 that you would never get divorced and when you promised through "sickness and in health" you meant it. You meant it like religion, and you would have been quick to judge anyone who failed those vows.

But I did it.

I left him in sickness.

I never thought I'd have a child, let alone a child out of wedlock. Nice girls from Bloomfield Hills don't do such things. I used to joke that my life had become a Jerry Springer show, and the pain of that truth wasn't buried too deeply underneath my bravado.

Strong, feminist, educated women don't let their boyfriends knock them around. Strong women don't disappear under the force of some bully's might. Anyone who has known me, even from our playground days, would never imagine I would take crap from any man. I was always a tough little tomboy. I never knew I would become a cliche.

But I did.

There are all sorts of failings, losses, disappointments and heartaches I never thought I'd go through. And even the ones I have encountered, I didn't handle nearly so well as I'd hoped. I have not gone through life with the poise and grace I'd expected of myself. The rigid expectations and the cocky assurances of my youth have been weathered away by this humbling life.

Though it's taken nearly 40 years, I'd have to say I wouldn't have it any other way. What I have discovered from this life of loss is a capacity for understanding. If I have failed myself and have had to pick up and start all over again more times than I care to admit, I find I am more apt to understand how you could fall. And more likely to help you up.

Some folks don't seem to soften with age, it's true. Some may not be so humbled by life but rage against it still. In their inability to forgive themselves their failings and to recognize their own weaknesses, they'll never acquire the ability to forgive you yours.

I'd take a life riddled with imperfection and messy humanity, if it leaves me sympathetic to yours. At 38 years old, I realize this is what it is to be a good person — not living a life free from mistakes and failures. Recently I'd confided in a friend when I was scared, disappointed and on the verge of castigating myself yet again for the direction my life had taken,  she stopped me in my tracks.

"It is your life, Mandy. And you get to live it exactly how you want."

So yes, it's messy. And yes, it's not ideal. But it's mine, and I'll take it just as it is.

Kindergarten Love

"Mom, I have a girlfriend at school," Cracky announced and then caught himself. "Is it okay if I have a girlfriend?"

"Sure, you can have a girlfriend."

"Remember at daycare Miss Kathy said I couldn't have a wife until I graduated from college?"

"Yes, I remember," I said and stifled a snort. "So who's your girlfriend?"

"Her name is Kate and she is very beautiful." He pursed his lips and then smiled a secret smile to himself — half-pleased, half-embarrassed. And then his little cheeks went crimson.

My god. The boy is smitten, I thought.

"What color hair does she have?" I asked, checking to see if he was staying true to the blondes.

"Yellow."

Good boy.

He sat there with the same pleased look on his face and it was so tender, so sweet, I felt I would burst. Did you know five-year-old boys got like this? I didn't.

"Is Kate in your class?" I asked.

"No, she's in the class next door. But I go over there to do the calendar with her. That's our job."

"Oh. Do you get to see her at lunch or on the playground?" I wondered how my little Casanova had wooed a girl from another class. Love knows no boundaries, I guess.

"Yes. I eat lunch with her everyday."

My eyebrows shot up. This was obviously serious.

"She is the most beautiful girl I ever saw."

Because I couldn't contain the adorableness, I immediately texted The Boyfriend to update him on Cracky's new relationship status.

"He's in love," The Boyfriend responded. I paused and stared at the screen. My initial reaction was to laugh, but then I reconsidered.

"Are you in love?" I asked Cracky.

"Yes."

"With who?" I replied, still surprised, half-expecting him to say he was in love with me, his mom, of course.

"With Kate," he said, simply and certainly.

So there it is.

And I won't laugh at it. I still remember the boy I loved in Kindergarten. I was in love with Jason for the first half of elementary school, until he moved away. And then I loved him a while longer — until blue-eyed Eric moved to our school. 

Those childhood loves are still just as real to me as any other I have loved.

Is that odd?

I was always faithful like that. Cracky is too, it appears. He was "married" to a girl in daycare for two years, despite Miss Kathy's Rule.

We are lovers, the boy and I. Romantics, through-and-through. I wonder if Romanticism is Nature or Nurture? Are you born with a willingness, an eagerness to love? Are we all? I do love to see the world through my son's eyes, and to witness the newness and innocence of schoolyard love. As I write this, I remember standing with Jason and Robin in the doorway of the elementary school. Robin had announced her love for Jason, right in front of me, Jason's known best friend and suspected, besotted, unspoken-for girlfriend. 

Robin demanded that he choose.

"I choose Mandy," he said.

And I'm quite sure I stood in that doorway with the same little smile I saw on Cracky's face last night.