Bedtime with young kids can be pretty special. By the time you’ve given them a bedtime snack, cleaned up the snack, brushed their teeth, caught them eating another snack, brushed their teeth again, put them in (ideally, but not necessarily) clean pajamas, read them a book, sung them a song, read them another book, sung another song, said a prayer, kissed them goodnight, you’re well beyond ready to move on with your evening. Oftentimes, I am getting home from a long day of work just about the time this delightful ritual begins. I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m desperate to just relax and find some time for myself and not be needed for just five freaking minutes. Many times, my attitude is not much better than this guy’s. Continue reading
Sitting down to dinner, I find myself staring at the side of my son’s face. He doesn’t know I’m watching.
It’s a child’s face. A boy’s face. But not a baby’s face. Not even a young child’s face. He’s nine. His skin is smooth. And soft, still. Perfect. But it won’t always be. For an instant, in my mind’s eye, I catch a glimpse of this face as a teenage face. Continue reading
When I was growing up (picture the place where Generation X meets Y), “unrealistic expectations” did not exist. There were no limits. Nothing was unattainable. The only boundaries were those enforced by the furthest reaches of my imagination. The only career advice I ever received was “follow your heart,” “follow your dreams,” “you can be anything you want to be.” And I believed it. Continue reading
If you ever really want to upset a mom, particularly a young, overworked, often frazzled stay-at-home mom, and you happen to see her out without her kids, say on an evening or a weekend, ask her something like “if you’re out, who is watching your kids?” or worse “hey, is your husband babysitting? Isn’t that nice of him?” I have it on good authority that they HATE this, the thinking being that the children are just as much the husband’s/father’s responsibility as they are the mother’s, and that’s not called babysitting, it’s called parenting. Period.