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“That makes you look old,” daughter informed me this week, as she watched me do something I do several times a day. Was she looking at emerging “non-pigmented” roots along my hairline. (I prefer not to use the “g-four letter word.”) Reach for reading glasses? Inspect a new crevice working it’s way onto my face. Oh, I do have all that going on. This, however, is bigger. According to my daughter. More public. More horrifying. And something she thinks I
Picture this, if you can. My husband and I had trust issues this week. Did I doubt he would provide for our family? Pull us out of a burning building, if need be? Step between me and a hungry saber-tooth tiger? Nah, he’d have that covered. This, though, was big. Months ago, I accepted a rare work gig that was going to take me out of town for 5 days. I figured Husband and our girls could, would do fine.
You know those warm, fuzzy gushy feeling columns you read around Mother’s Day? I’ve written a few myself. (Like this and this.) Yeah, this isn’t one of those. Oh, it’s about motherhood, all right. But this one is more like hitting the motherhood panic button. A button I hit the other day while, don’t get too excited, sewing on a real button. A button that had fallen off one of my girls’ school uniforms. That’s when I realized– These children,
Get out the gloves and nice dresses. My daughter and I are heading to High Tea at a fancy schmancy hotel here in town. It’s what we do each year to celebrate the anniversary of our adoption. And I do mean OUR adoption, as she was 11 when we met, 13 when I married her dad. 14 when the judge made legal what was already long official in both our hearts. When a kid is a certain age, she has
We had a crisis in our house this week. As are most crises with teenagers— This one was astronomical. Huge. Tragic. It involved, Get ready. It’s big. Our daughter losing her cell phone. Yes, I know. International relief funds have been started over tragedies smaller than this. “I think I left it behind at school,” she explained in a panic while using someone else’s phone. “I couldn’t go back and check or I’d miss the bus home.” You can imagine how this crisis
Looks like I will be turning in my American passport. I’ve been informed I’m not of this country. Oh, it ratchets up from there. Apparently, I’m not even of this planet. The notice came via a look. A look from my kids. Perhaps, Dear Reader, you’ve gotten “The Look,” as well? It comes about the time you mention celebrities or movies that were part of the fabric of your youth. “This guy reminds me of Elton John,” I remarked the other
Talk about a potential movie moment gone bust! The “Woe is me” moment brought on, by all things, by the recent “Sound of Music” Sing-A-Long on TV. Did you happen to catch it, Dear Reader? Did you sing along? As Julie Andrews sings, “Let’s start at the very beginning….” Of coming across the movie on TV, of looking to my family and saying, “Yes, Family let’s sing!” Here’s the thing—I didn’t get as far as a “deer, a female deer,” before my family turned this
In case you were wondering— The lady running around last weekend from one end of the metro area to the other in what can best be described as “Mom High Fashion of Shame.” Yeah, that was me. How shall I best describe my outfit? T shirt that I had slept in, so big it would still be loose on King Kong. Sweats from 1984, or thereabouts with stains and holes to match. Plastic Croc sandals. Uncombed hair half up in a clip.
Dearest Daughter, We met when you were 11. I married Daddy when you were 13. The judge made you and me legal with our adoption when you were 14. This parenting gig really does fly by in flash, so before you zoom out the door, on the occasion of your Sweet 16, here are 14 wishes from me to you: 1. I wish that you know how much joy you’ve given your two mothers. Both Mommy in heaven, and now
“Did you cry?” There you have the number one thing my daughter wanted to know, as she quizzed me like I was a guilty suspect and she was a top detective on CSI. Truth is, I can’t really blame her. As I’ve shared with you Dear Reader, since becoming a parent, I’ve become a crier. If you ask my kids, they will tell you that I cry at the most ridiculous times. I cried when one filled out a form
