Posts Tagged "love after loss"

Last month, I had the honor of read­ing in “The Mama Mono­logues” at Corte Madera Book Pas­sage, along with NY Times best-selling author Kelly Cor­ri­gan and many other tal­ented Writ­ing Mamas. Spe­cial thanks to Dawn Yun, founder of The Writ­ing Mamas, for mak­ing this laugh­ter and tear-filled event pos­si­ble. We raised over $5,000 for Abelina Mag­ana, a North­ern Cal­i­for­nia mother of three who was shot 15 times and lived to tell. If you would like to make a con­tri­bu­tion to Abelina and her chil­dren, all of whom are still very much in need of our help, please send a check to: Attn: The Mag­ana Fam­ily Fund, Bank of Marin, 1450 Grant Avenue, Novato, 94945. Please enjoy this video of my piece, “You Think You Know,”...

On Father’s Day, I hold the wristwatch—a stain­less steel Bell & Ross—and notice the delayed clicks of the white sec­ond hand. My thumb moves in cir­cu­lar motions across the water­proof glass. I’m sur­prised by its weight. Erik, my 29-year-old hus­band, pleaded with me for this expen­sive watch, but I said, “You know we can’t afford that right now.” We were sav­ing money to buy our first house in over-priced Marin County, California. “Hyla, he’s going to give it to me for one-third the cost.” Oh, Erik. “Why do I have to be the one who has to say no?” Erik put me in charge of our finances after he’d accepted that his impetu­ous spend­ing habits weren’t help­ing us save. We were newly preg­nant with our sec­ond...

Match​.com. E-Harmony. Yahoo Per­son­als. J-Date. Yup, I signed up for them all. I was a mama on a mis­sion to find love online. More sites, more options. I had tried the club scene. Blar­ing music. Dim lights. Too much booze. “Nice toes,” one guy had said, look­ing first at my feet and then straight at my chest. Tall, dressed in black slacks, button-down blue shirt, full head of blonde hair. He cer­tainly was attractive. But way too young and way too inter­ested in my breasts. Tall, dressed in black slacks, button-down blue shirt, full head of blonde hair. He cer­tainly was attractive. But way too young and way too inter­ested in my breasts. “Nice toes?” The white tips of my toe­nails peeked out from my three-inch-high red, strappy...

    My dad is Lutheran, my mom is Jew­ish. My child­hood exposed me to tra­di­tions from both denom­i­na­tions, but I cer­tainly wouldn’t describe myself as religious. Spir­i­tual, yes. Reli­gious, no. In fact, if there is a god, I’m still pretty pissed off at him. Today, though, I can’t help but con­tem­plate the reli­gious mean­ing in both Easter and Passover. Seven years ago, on Easter Sun­day, my hus­band, Erik, and I admired our 17-month-old daugh­ter, Tatiana, as she care­fully grasped pur­ple and pink polka-dotted eggs in the grass. “Do you think about how lucky we are,” I said to Erik. He rubbed my ripe, preg­nant belly. “Yeah, I think about it at least five times a day.” Erik was a rising-star...