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Tag: Susan Koenig

Susan Koenig

Grit or Quit?

  It just didn’t occur to me that I could quit my marriage. Not because of my elementary school education at St. Frances Cabrini Church or because I couldn’t make the mortgage payment. I really just didn’t consider it as a choice. I was so ingrained with the gift of grit I never looked at the possibility that I could quit trying. The capacity to endure has inspired me since those when I was still too young to get babysitting jobs. Lying on my bed trying to escape the dog days of Nebraska summers, I spent countless afternoons being inspired
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Mariachi Mother’s Day

I had a 3 o’clock appointment for a massage from Fernando. I separated from my six travel companions who were more willing than me on this Mother’s Day morning to haggle with the street vendors hawking brightly colored scarves and silver necklaces. I walked quickly to an uncertain destination with my eyes straight ahead under my big black sunhat. In the distance I could see the ocean. I quickened my pace until I arrived at the plaza that opened onto the beach. A line had gathered outside a small white chapel whose entrance was covered in white flowers drooping in
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Whew

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
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The Duty of Discomfort

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.
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Truth

Each December a series of tiny treasures arrive in my mailbox. A Cat Lovers Against the Bomb calendar. A refrigerator magnet from my favorite cinema. Return address labels with snowflakes. Gifts from good causes all hoping to receive a return gift from me. I love making lists, so the penguin and reindeer notepad was about to be saved from the recycle bin when I noticed the personalization, “The Koenig Family, 1266 South 13th Street.” A subtle sadness washed over me as I thought, “No family lives at this address.” “Family” for me has long equaled a husband and children living
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September Celebration

I leaned over to my client and whispered, “If I leave the courtroom suddenly, it’s because I’m in labor.”  She was the mother of three, so I knew she would understand. Earlier that morning my body gave clear signs that “this was the day” I would give birth to my first child. My client had waited for months for her court date. She was desperate for child support, this was the day, and I was determined there be no further delay. It was September 20, 1983, well before the era of cell phones for every day living. It was the
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Picture Perspective

When your grown children live several states away from you, a visit from them is precious. My youngest and his girlfriend are here with me now. Both are studying for bar exams, so I delight in the chance to be the supportive mom to the studious. During one of their evening study breaks, the three of us found ourselves sitting next to one another on the sofa, flipping through pages of photo albums from the days when adoring parents slipped memories into plastic sleeves inside little floral covered books.  I noticed myself holding my breath to hear my child’s reflections
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Security

We think we are safe. We think our children are safe. We think our country is safe. Until we hear that an all-American city celebrating a great tradition in broad daylight on Patriots Day is bombed. Until we hear that an 8 year old was murdered by the explosion. And then we are reminded of the fragility of security. Tens of thousands slaughtered in Syria sounds far away. But Boston? No, Boston feels like our backyard. Boston is where I arrived at the age of 22. My greatest insecurity was how a working class girl from South Omaha would fit
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Power Down Hour

His eyes remain shut as he presses the snooze button for the third time.  Finally he peeks at the time and the panic of needing to be out the door in 25 minutes jolts him up. No time for a shower. He stumbles to his closet.  He stares blankly for an eternity before grabbing something, anything. A glance in the mirror reveals his pants are too wrinkled for wear. Growing crankier by the minute, he remembers that he needs to scrape the ice off of his windshield. “I’m gonna be late,” he mutters. No time for breakfast.  He heads for
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Mr. Nice Guy

“No one wants a nice divorce lawyer,” I read in our local newspaper last week. It brought be back to 1983. “Gee whiz. I didn’t think lawyers cried,” my uncle said. I had just wept while giving the eulogy at my Dad’s funeral, less than a month after his cancer diagnosis.  I was 28 years old and three months into my law career. 30 years later, I see misconceptions about lawyers persist. When going through a divorce, it feels as though your entire life is at stake. You can’t afford to worry that your legal advocate is weak, emotional, or
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