The other day my 16-year-old son and I were driving down our street when I spotted a young boy scooting along in his Little Tykes car. The sight of my now-driving son alongside the toddler-driver no doubt struck me. “Oh look, how cute,” I cooed. The boy looked up at us, brown eyes peering from under shaggy bangs.
My son looked over and smiled. “Do you ever wish I were that small again?” he asked. I said that while I remember with fondness the days when he and his sister were little, I like where I am now, where they are now. “No, I wouldn’t want to return to those days. Too much work,” I said. My son didn’t get it. “You mean you wouldn’t ever want to go back?” he asked, incredulous. I told him I’d go back for a day—that’s it. I wouldn’t want to relive my life.
For me, the best time as a mother has always been “now.” It was now when my children were newborn, curled up soft and sweet and warm in my arms. It was now when they first smiled and talked and took their first steps. It was now when they boarded the bus for school, and when they went away to overnight camp. It was now when I read to them at night, and when they learned to read by themselves.
It was now when they wrote a story, painted a picture, kicked a ball, sang a song. It was now when they had playmates and when they developed deep, lasting friendships. It was now even through the bad times—the tempers and tantrums and worries and stress—those challenging moments that made everything seem better by comparison.
Everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve experienced as a mother to my children over the years has prepared me for now. And this current stage, having grown or almost-grown children, is about as good as it gets. I love seeing my children in the midst of life—experimenting, challenging, learning, growing. I love watching and wondering what’s next for them—friends they’ll meet, careers they’ll choose, places they’ll visit, families they’ll have. I love how my children and I can talk about anything, how we can be serious and funny, quiet and loud. I love all of that.
Yes, for me, the best time as a mother has always been now. I think I’ll say the same thing next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. At least I hope I will.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Adjusting to Life's Changes
Years ago while visiting Tucson I decided to go for a run in a park near my hotel. After less than a mile, I could barely catch my breath. Though hot, it wasn’t oppressive. What made the run so grueling was the air—it was as dry as the desert that surrounded me. Other runners were making their way around the loop, no problem. Clearly they were used to the dryness, their lungs easily filling with air.
Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.
We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.
That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?
Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.
I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”
No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.
We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.
That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?
Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.
I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”
No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Graduation and the Wings of Time
Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The World of iPods
It is only recently I’ve learned to appreciate iPods. I know I’m coming to this rather late, seeing as how they’ve been around for years. Though I hate to admit it, this coming-to-things-late tendency is fast becoming my M.O. I watched the television show “24” for the first time a few weeks ago (the premier of its sixth season), was one of the last people I know to get a DVD player, and have yet to trade my bulky Canon for a digital camera. My children got their iPods fairly recently — my daughter for her high school graduation last spring, and my son this past Christmas — so that may partially explain my limited iPod knowledge.
When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.
“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.
He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.
The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.
Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.
Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.
And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.
Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.
“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.
He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.
The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.
Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.
Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.
And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.
Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
Sunday, February 18, 2007
New Driver Dread
Years ago when my daughter was learning to drive, I jotted in my journal to help manage my sometimes overwhelming anxiety. As with many things, humor helped me to keep it all in perspective. My daughter is now a fine driver and I'm sure my son will be the same.
Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.
Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear
Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.
Stage 2 - Self-preservation
You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.
You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."
Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)
During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.
Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."
Stage 4 - The Launch
If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.
So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)
Despite knowing this, I feel the tension building as I see friends on the road with their driving teens and think how I'll soon be going through all this again. So for all the parents out there, here is a primer on what to expect as you enter this new life stage.
Stage 1 - Denial and Intense Fear
Your teen has her learner's permit and you, the reluctant but supportive parent are strapped snuggly into the co-pilot's seat. At first you take pride in your clever strategy of keeping to parking lots and deserted side streets. At some point, though, you know you're going to have to bite the bullet and go where there are, gulp, other cars. The first few times out in traffic are a heart-thumping nightmare. You're convinced you're going to cross over that double yellow line, hitting oncoming cars, or drift too far to the right, leaving a trail of mailbox road-kill behind. The feeling that horrific things may happen is constant, even when your child is doing just fine. So when your kid does have a lapse in judgment, it's beyond terrifying.
Stage 2 - Self-preservation
You compare this experience to other times you've gently guided your child to make good decisions. After all, you want her to learn - to become an independent, well-functioning adult. When you're driving with your teen, though, all rationality flies right out the car window.
You constantly bark instructions, pump the invisible passenger's side brake and scream -"Slow down! Stop!" You meticulously check both ways (multiple times) at intersections before giving the go-ahead to cross. Your kid is also looking both ways, but she knows not to go until you say so. You realize this whole driving thing is severely straining your parent-child relationship. "You don't trust me," your kid says. You've got that right, you think, but instead say something like "it's not that - it's just that you need to get a little more experience."
Stage 3 - Letting Go (a bit)
During this next stage, you begin to let go. You may catch yourself before you yell an instruction, waiting to see if your child is going to do what you were about to say. If things are going well, more often than not you won't have to shout. You may even become complacent, not exactly relaxed, but not continuously terrified either.
Warning: This Is A Very Dangerous Stage. Though your teen is gaining experience and making nice progress, she is still a new driver. Keep alert for lapses in judgment. Just when you think everything is going smoothly, your child may make one of those tire-screeching-cutting-off-an-oncoming-car-type moves that makes your heart race. Don't despair. This is quite normal and all part of the learning process. You may find some defiance from your teen at this point. She is gaining confidence (a good thing) but thinks she is an excellent driver (not a good thing.) She may say things like "I can't stand driving with you" or, and this is really scary, but true, "when I get my license you won't be in the car telling me what to do."
Stage 4 - The Launch
If all goes as planned, your child will pass her driving test and become an official driver. She will have to wait six months before she can drive with friends (a good thing), even though she may say it is not a good thing. At this point, your tension level is back to Stage 1, experienced as overall anxiety any time your child reaches for the car keys. The only thing that helps at this point is time - you just kind of get used to your teen being a driver. Realizing the benefits such as running errands and shuttling younger siblings to sports practices helps soften the blow. You try to remember that you too, were once a new driver and look how competent you are now.
So hopefully this has helped to de-mystify the new driver experience. Like many life events, we all manage to somehow muddle through. They learn, they launch. This whole driving thing helps kids gain a bit more independence on their way to being on their own. We parents are learning too. We are learning, slowly, how to (gently) let go.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2006)
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Life's Little Pet Peeves
The other day, my son was having trouble with his Xbox. The screen was freezing and the red lights were blinking and then the darn thing just wouldn’t turn on. I suggested he call the 800-number to see if he could get some help. After being put on hold for several minutes, he was finally transferred to the “customer service representative,” a pre-recorded voice offering tips — all of them useless — to help fix the problem.
After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.
I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.
Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.
As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.
There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.
Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.
I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”
Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.
Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.
Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)
After more waiting and music and robotic talking, he was abruptly disconnected. It was my son’s first introduction to a phenomenon I and many people have long dealt with — the infuriating world of non-service customer service.
I realize there are far more serious concerns than small, everyday annoyances like being placed on hold and talking to a fake person when you’re trying to get something fixed. But sometimes, especially on a weak day, these are just the things that put me over the edge.
Other customer service pet peeves include repair people who fail to show up, and stores that promptly distance themselves from any responsibility when the product you’ve purchased encounters a problem. Being bombarded with the hard-sell is also on my pet peeve list — the won’t-take-no-for-an-answer telemarketer, the person who asks if I “want to try a combo” or purchase the special of the week at the grocery check-out counter, the salesperson who asks “can I help you?” when I’ve barely entered the store. Equally irritating is the opposite problem of being completely ignored. For some reason this seems to happen a lot in shoe departments.
As annoying as aggressive telemarketers are, rude cell phone users are even worse. At least with a telemarketer I can simply hang up. Rude cell phone users are everywhere, and often in places where there is no escape, like when I’m trapped with one of them yakking away on a train or in an airport lobby or waiting my turn in line at the grocery store.
There is no bigger pet peeve category, though, than that of discourteous, dangerous drivers. Of particular concern are drivers who don’t use turn signals, tailgate, drive too slow in the fast lane, weave in and out of lanes, speed excessively, shave or put on make-up while driving, enter rotaries without merging, use the breakdown lane as a passing lane or run red lights. Though it is no surprise, I’ve noticed that drivers guilty of these dangerous deeds are often talking on their cell phones.
Other pet peeves include people who refer to themselves in the third person and those who ask and then answer their own questions. Professional athletes do this a lot. Also politicians like when they say “Are we in a difficult position in Iraq? Absolutely.” For some reason, people who refer to themselves in the third person tend to be those who ask and answer their own questions.
I also have a thing against bragging bumper stickers, like those that proclaim, “My child is student of the month, class president, on the honor roll and listed in ‘who’s who’ in America.” The best response to this kind of pronouncement was the bumper sticker that read, “My Golden Retriever is smarter than your honor student.”
Speaking of dogs, I have to add to the list of annoyances people who don’t clean up after their pets. Rudeness in general is a huge pet peeve of mine — people who honk for no reason, toss trash on the highway, cut in line, let their children run wild in restaurants, talk in movie theatres. I also have trouble with people who don’t return phone calls, interrupt, or go on and on about themselves.
Now I realize I’m far from perfect. I’m sure there are plenty of things I do that get under the skin of those around me. I know this is true because I’ve even managed to annoy myself at times. And as much as I try my best to be patient, courteous and considerate, I know I am not always successful.
Have I ever been guilty of one of my own pet peeves I profess to abhor? Absolutely.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2007)
Monday, January 15, 2007
Outsourcing the Stuff of Life
I’m jogging down the street, hunched over, one hand resting on my daughter’s bicycle seat, the other outstretched, ready. I watch her wobble left and then right. She tumbles over to the side, pink Schwinn flopping on top of her little legs. She brushes gravel from her knees, looks up and pleads, “Can I try again, Mom?” I rub my aching back as I look into her proud, eager eyes. “Sure, why not?” Other than the color of the bike, it was pretty much the same with my son.
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My Mother's Day Life Lessons
This Mother's Day, I enter a new stage. I am now the parent of an adult child. Though my daughter is grown, she is still my child. And though I am now old enough to have a grown daughter, I am still my mother's child.
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Memories in a Makeup Shop
I knew it would happen like this, the slow sinking-in of how things have changed. I haven’t seen my daughter lately. It’s not because we are on different schedules—she a night owl sleeping late into the morning, and me an early-to-bed-early-riser. It’s not that she is busy with homework, at play rehearsal, out with friends or working at her summer job. It is not for any of the usual reasons. My daughter has left home for college. She really is gone.
I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.
There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.
We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.
The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.
We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.
Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.
I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.
My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.
Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.
(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)
I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.
There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.
We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.
The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.
We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.
Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.
I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.
My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.
Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.
(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)
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