Whew. I can breathe a sigh of relief. I wasn’t as bad of a mother as I sometimes thought. Don’t get me wrong. I was a good mom. Montessori, broccoli, and hugs. But my efforts at being the best mom I could be didn’t stop the thoughts that I should have spent more time with my children. If how my children turned out as adults could earn a prize, their dad and I would win the biggest blue ribbon ever. But plenty of people manage to grow up to be remarkable human beings notwithstanding imperfect parenting. So my grown children’s
There I am on April 23, 1982, turning 7 years old, swirling and twirling and basking in bubbles. Today I reach my fortieth milestone and I feel the same way about my birthday as I did back then. I would be just as happy today swirling around in a pretty pink party dress, laughing as the bubbles popped around me. Birthdays mean many different things for people. Some bemoan the addition of age and sigh as they see the wrinkles appearing around the edges of their eyes. Others enjoy the loving attention they might receive from family and friends. And
Have you ever been amazed when someone remembers a handful of words you once spoke in the distant past? Trina and I recently found ourselves catching up on each other’s lives. My Benjamin and her Ricky were classmates, soccer teammates, and playmates. Our sons had kept their friendship into adulthood, but it had been years since I’d had a chance to really talk to Trina. After boasting about boys and catching up on careers, the conversation wandered toward my former husband. “I remember when I first heard about your divorce,” Trina said. “I was shocked.” I unconsciously held my breath.
“You have it so much easier because you only have your kids half the time.” He made this statement a couple of times during our conversation. The first time it fell out of his mouth I felt like a victim of Little Bunny Foo Foo hopping through the forest being bopped on the head. It didn’t sting so much as shock my system. The next time he said it, the normally dormant lava bubbles in my gut started to boil as anger crept up my spine. These words were uttered by a dear friend of mine who has seen some
My final year of law school I earned $6,200. My husband and I and our black lab Cardozo lived in an 800 square foot house. I rode my Honda scooter to class. Weekends were spent searching for finds at our favorite thrift stores. More than a decade later, my annual earnings as a full-time lawyer were $6,511. It was 1991, and the year of my divorce. How was it that I worked full-time practicing law with the work ethic of my Midwestern German parents and that this was all I had to show for? As I make my annual April