[ This week, I’ve invited a few individuals to post on The Gui Girl while I try to get a handle on my new career and life. Today’s post was contributed by Kim Oja, the author of My Business is Your Business. I’ve known Kim for a little over 10 years. TEN. YEARS. FRAAAAAK! How the hell did that happen?! Anyway, Kim is a writer who moonlights as an agent of the insurance underwriting industry. She’s also one of the more hilariously outrageous humans I know. And she’s perpetually tan with virtually little effort, for which I will be pastily, perpetually jealous.  I will now affix this Lee Press-On Nail to my pinky so I can slap dat bitch with my strong and mighty pimp hand. ]

It kind of snuck up on me, like the holiday season or the charms of Al Roker– friendlessness.

This is, of course, a loaded word– I have friends. Lots of friends! I am very popular! My MySpace account can confirm this! In my prime, I ran with a pack of friends– in college, our lunch table was the place to be. But the strangest thing happened– when I came home from North Carolina, where I went to graduate school (and had friends! Many, many friends!), all my Ohio friends had dispersed across the country, and when I went back to North Carolina, I found that those friends had done the same.

Now, this does wonders for my travel options– a bed in every state!– but it’s not so great when it’s ten o’clock at night and I want to go to Walgreens to buy cheap makeup and bags of Munchos, and find that my husband, shockingly, is not particularly interested in this proposition. (Why anyone, male or female, would take a pass on ten p.m. Munchos, I have no idea.)

And it cannot be said that I haven’t tried to make new friends, per the old Girl Scouts adage (although it might important to note that I survived in Girl Scouts only one day; upon learning that the sit-upon I was sewing was to keep my butt relatively ant-free at Girl Scout camp, I bolted out in tears). I have attended countless Tastefully Simple parties, and even attempted to make a scrapbook page or two in an effort to impress upon other potential friend candidates that I am just like them, and very much enjoy decoupaging pictures cut from magazines onto my birth control container.

But alas, it was not to be, and aside from a few carefully cultivated local friends (one of whom is actually an old college friend, so luckily I didn’t have to wow her with my scrapbook layout skills), my husband and I have discovered ourselves adrift in the local sea.

This was always a major concern of mine– no matter where I went, whether it was high school, college or grad school, I automatically assumed that I would be unable to make friends. I planned for this, and spent many evenings imagining myself in all black, eating rice cooked in a small potpourri crock to avoid the humiliation of the cafeteria, listening to the music of The Cure and writing long poems with recurring themes of horse skeletons and broken clocks. Luckily, this never came to pass, and, surrounded by friends, I was spared the task of having to find a word that rhymed with “dessicated corpse.”

Even now, I’m never really friendless, because I always have my husband with me (and even if I can’t force him to play Rock Band with me until three a.m., he’s still the best friend anyone could have). And I have lots of long distance friends that are only a phone call or an e-mail away. But sometimes you just need that extra element to supplement a Saturday night– someone that you don’t have to fall asleep with at the end of the night, unless you’re kinky like that.

This past Saturday was one of those nights– Ben and I found ourselves at the local bar, watching the women’s Olympic marathon and contemplating whether the leader of the race had peed her pants, as we had heard that marathoners will sometimes do. At the table behind us, a group of about eight friends debated what country she was from.

“ROM. That’s Rome, obviously,” they said of the Romanian runner.

And right then, we were happy to be friendless.

[ This week, I’ve invited a few individuals to post on The Gui Girl while I try to get a handle on my new career and life. Today’s post was contributed by Eric, the author of Blog-O-Plenty. His _own mother_ thanked me in person for encouraging him to write, and I must say we are all richer for it. I can’t even believe he can write about skunk pee, mink butt, and beaver stretchers and do it with such earnest enthusiasm and sincerity. Me? I’d still be peeing my pants laughing over “beaver stretcher”. Related: I now have a new catchphrase. “I saw me some hobo!” ]

Since Denise and I talk so much about raising our daughters — and in the course of those conversations, about people and feelings and such — I’m fairly certain this little piece can find a home here on the GEE-YOU-EYE blog.

I recently returned from a nice — albeit exhausting — vacation in Colorado. Wife, daughter, me — we three — went to stay with an old college friend, Chris and her family.

Chris is a strong woman. Knows what she wants. Says what she wants. Knows better than you. Sometimes I find her abrasively funny. Other times? Simply abrasive. Fact is, I’ve always struggled to like her. Since she and my wife have been friends for many years I was willing to spend time with her. I’ll be patient, I thought to myself. I’ll put up with her. I’m such a kindly person. Even though she irritates me, I’ll tough it out, I thought.

That being said, Chris has raised two terrific boys. They’re something like 14 and 12. They’re filled with witty comments — snide and clever — and mad imaginations. They seem nothing like their mother, and very much like her at the same time. They’re just polite enough. Just responsible enough. They’re sincere and irreverent. Comfortable. So very comfortable you can’t help but like them.

Chris has filled their beautiful house with inspirational quotes. They’re written on cards taped to the refrigerator door. They’ve been thumbtacked to the ceiling above the boys’ beds. Inspiration is etched onto mirrors and painted on walls. Imagine an entire house as if it were the inside of a philosopher’s bathroom stall, sans phone numbers. But the quotes aren’t sappy or superficial. They read like chicken soup for a young goll dang soul. These words are spot-on. “Believe in yourself,” one simple postcard insists. “You are unique.”

Beside the bedroom light switch a sign reads: “Brush your teeth morning and night.”

The living room wall: “Be nice or leave.”

There are longer quotes, from poets and such. Too long for me to remember. But I can still see those signs, those desperate and prescriptive placards, urging the reader to be true to themselves, have fun, act their age, respect life and play and laughter.

We sat in a dimly lit dining room, empties cluttering the table.

“I Fucking hate people,” Chris said in a late-night moment of candor. “I just don’t want to be around them — any of them.” Then she laughed, her eyes looking away.

Right then I realized those house-filled quotes were as much for her as they were for her boys. I knew that although this woman wasn’t particularly happy with her life — something she didn’t necessarily hide from her kids — she’d somehow managed to raise her boys perfectly. They were grander than her. Already at this young age they’d somehow surpassed her and their father.

My wife had always said Chris was a great mom, but I had no reason to think it was true. I mean, the woman BUGGED me. And she never struck me as being overly kind.

Yet here it was… proof. Two great young people. I knew for certain they’d one day make great older people.

I suppose there’s nothing new in any of this. We all hope and pray, after all, that our children grow to be more successful and happy than us — somehow better than us. Whole being more than the sum of its blah blah blah… But when you see it — when it’s just happening right before your eyes… hell, it’s just miraculous.

Course I was half drunk when this happened, and thinking way too much. Nothing much worse than a thinking drunk, I suppose. Anyhow, I wandered down the hallway and into the bathroom to pee. A Dr. Seuss quote, stenciled flawlessly onto the wall, greeted me. But when I turned to the toilet is when it really hit me. I mean, there are truly those moments, ya know? Those OH. MY.GOD moments of clarity. They don’t just happen in the movies. M. Night Shamalamadingdong is not the only one with catastrophic surprises, moments of truth, of understanding. OH.MY.GOD Bruce Willis is DEAD!

I looked to the toilet. There on top of the tank, next to some pretty candle or something (what am I, a decorator?) was a lovingly framed bit of writing:

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse.  “You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” -The Velveteen Rabbit

I read it again and again. Then I read it again, long after I’d finished peeing. Suddenly the overwhelmingness of life washed over me. The complicatedness of being swept through me. Clarity.

I swallowed hard, walked out the door and back down the hallway. I looked at her for only a moment before sitting down beside her. Her sharp edges had never before been so delicate or sad.

[ This week, I’ve invited a few individuals to post on The Gui Girl while I try to get a handle on my new career and life. Today’s post was contributed by Tammy Howard, the author of Keep In Touch With Mommakin.  Tammy’s wit, keen observations on life, kids, teaching, knitting prowess, and killer reading list make her blog one of my top reads. Also: Tammy, I’ll be asking Tom to write for my “Guest Author Week” in December. Just giving you fair warning. ]

When you first find out you’re pregnant with a very wanted child, you tend to get a little rush of overwhelming love. You become very protective of this little creature that you’re only sure exists because your doctor has assured you that it does. You are sure you will never love anything more in your life than you love that unborn baby.

Then it kicks for the first time. Wow. Insane is the only way to describe the amount of love that is now in your heart. This is your child! A living, moving, absolutely undeniably there entity; a baby that YOU made and are completely responsible for. You will surely never love anything more than you love this little being at this point.

Then the baby is born and you hold it in your arms for the first time. It was hard work, and you’re exhausted, but you are sure – absolutely inarguably sure – that you will never love anything more than you love this living, breathing, utterly dependent, innocent, beautiful child in this moment.

Then the baby grows – quickly, as babies are wont to do. One day that reflexive smile you’ve been enjoying since birth becomes a social smile. That little person is smiling at you! That baby is happy because they’re with YOU! Surely it doesn’t get better than this. How could you EVER love anyone or anything more than you love this sweet child who now seems to be acknowledging that they love you back?

That baby becomes a toddler, and you miss your baby, but you can’t believe how cool and fun your toddler is. One day that toddler looks you in the eye and says, “I love you, Mommy”. Surely at this moment, your heart is as big as it will ever get. You could never imagine accommodating more love than you feel RIGHT NOW.

Years go by, and you hear an “I hate you” or two. You still love your child, but you don’t like them everyday. Then one day that child is away for a little while, and when you’re reunited they practically break the sound barrier running to jump into your arms. Surely it will never get better than this, right?

But it does. It just gets better and better and better. Not everyday, and not all the time, of course. But if there’s one thing that motherhood has taught me, it’s that just when you think it can’t get better, it turns around and does.

Many moms worry about having a second child, because they’re sure they could never love anyone else as much as they love their first – and then their heart just grows. Without taking anything away from the first, you
are able to love the second just as thoroughly. It is truly amazing, the capacity to which our hearts can stretch.

Thank you, Denise, for sharing Reese with us. Thank you for allowing those of us who have “been there, done that” to relive those wonderful, special baby moments. Thank you for recording those moments for her – she will never be able to question how loved she is.

Enjoy every. Single. Moment.

Because every moment is the best one. So far.

[ This week, I’ve invited a few individuals to post on The Gui Girl while I try to get a handle on my new career and life.  Today’s post was contributed by the author of Non-Stick Fat, and remains an intranational man of mystery.  So mysterious, in fact, that I still don’t actually know his real name.  Also, he uses words like “sublimation” and “entropy” and “solipsism”.  Included artwork is property of Non-Stick Fat. ]

Some days, I wish I could write unfettered, where I could truly speak my mind.  There’s something cleansing in writing what you think deep down inside, but then there’s something restraining about writing anything less.  Do I write to express the thoughts I have, or the thoughts I’m supposed to have?  If it’s the latter, perhaps I shouldn’t be writing this.

I write to my daughter because I want her to have the opportunity to know me, for what it’s worth, as I was when she was through every stage of her life.  I want her to know herself through every stage of her life in greater detail, in greater clarity than I or any generation who came before ever could.  I don’t always explore what that means, or think about what that means.  My own generation was among the first to have true full color photos of our youth that hadn’t faded fully beyond recognition, into orange and sepia tones that drown the colors that once were.  I can only imagine what it would be like to have digital perfection then, and digital permanence of these early life records.

Then again, digital permanence is all or nothing.  Somewhere out there is a dejected parent trying to recover the faded and indecipherable magnetism of an outdated floppy lost one stormy night.  Too much light, too much moisture, a coffee spill, a house fire, a cosmic anomaly, an EMP…. no memory unremembered is safe, we can only do our best to preserve and relish the attempt.

Nothing can ever capture the joy I feel in the moments I hold her and see her smile.  No words, no images, nothing can ever explain it.  Some day in her teens I fully expect her to deride me for the foolishness of sharing this in her presence.

To be honest, I almost look forward to that little hurt, but not as much as I will the smile it will give me when life turns around on her and her daughter returns the favor.  It’s a little glimmer for an old pair of eyes to look forward to.  That’s the real joy, no matter how well or poorly recorded in media.  It is the memory and the trans-generational experience of it that makes these little things worthwhile.

So let’s go back to where I started.  What is the value in speaking my mind?  Who do I want to be to the daughter I have 30 years from now?

I wish I could tell you.

That’s all I know right now.  I want to have been right.  I want to have been valuable.  I want to have made all the right sacrifices and not buried her in the wrong ones.  I want to have made her proud.  I want not to have been labeled. I want her to love and experience life.

Most of all, if I didn’t make the right choices, I’ll ask one selfish favor.  I’ll ask her to forgive me.  I promise in advance I will have forgiven her. Everyone else, I’m afraid, will have to take their chances. That’s just what ‘daughter’ means.