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There is so much to go through. A Dear Reader is packing up a lifetime. There is so much to give away, to sell, to find a home for, and sometimes to just let go. There’s the dining room table, the scene of a lifetime of joyous gatherings. None of her kids have the room or the need. Such tough choices And so, she will let it go. There are the folders and file cabinets.
Something unbelievable is happening in my daughter’s bedroom. Behind a closed door. I know what she’s doing in there. Something big. Something heartbreaking. Something totally expected. Daughter is packing for college. I want to run in there 1,425 times an hour. “Have you thought about…?” “Have you considered…?” I stop myself mid-knock outside her door. I’m determined not to be that parent. Have you seen them? There is a special Facebook page for parents of students going to the same
This is to be Mother’s Day? Sure doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to go down. I find myself thinking about that this week. A lot. I read countless posts about daughters celebrating with their mothers. About bountiful brunch feasts. About women so thankful to hold their children close. Then, I look around. At my holiday. This year. This Mother’s Day. The first without my mother who passed last August. There will be no celebrating with her, I tell myself. Over
They are the words that inspire panic in any well-meaning parent. “I’m going to tell you something,” my daughter announced this week, but you have to promise me you won’t tell any other member of this family.” Talk about the ultimate morals test. On one hand, I was thrilled and relieved that Daughter trusted me enough to share her deep, dark secret. On the other, keep a secret from my husband? We just don’t have that kind of marriage. On
I’m in debt to a fish. The fish, who in 10 seconds, explained my parenting conundrum to me. Keep your expert books, parenting websites. I have clarity now. Thanks to the fish. You see, Dear Reader, my daughter is a senior in high school. We are in the season of looking at colleges. So much has changed since I went 10,000 years ago. These days, the kids put everything they want in a school and a software program spits out
I thought I was going for lunch. With my daughter. Turns out I was headed for a reality check. From my daughter. “Why don’t you call ahead and make sure they are open?” I suggested playing the role of the boring, plan-ahead mother. I play it well. Seconds later a concerned look spread across Daughter’s face. The wrinkled nose. Similar to when I ask her to clean her room. Just enough so that I can see a surface. Of something.
Dear Daughter, It seems like just last week I was sharing, “14 Wishes For My Daughter’s 16th Birthday.” yourcialisrx.com/cialis_soft_tabs.html With your 17th birthday upon us, the window is closing on your time under our roof. Please allow me to get a few more wishes in: -I wish you know there are so many ways to win at high school than just grades and test scores. -I wish you know that despite crazy college admission arms race, you do not need
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
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
He has no business loving me. The very idea of me could easily inspire a Bitter Party For One. I wouldn’t even blame him. I am not an answer to his prayers. And yet… Here we are at Mother’s Day. I’m the one being celebrated. I’m the one who gets the joy, privilege, and honor of raising his only grandchild. And yet…. The man we call, “Pops,” has experienced more loss than one person should bare: his first wife
