11So here it is, National Women’s History Month.
We are standing in the kitchen glaring at one another.
By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to absolute perfection. I’ll be flawless. Impeccable. Exemplary.
It was all so simple.
It’s the season.
It was one of those perfect fall days — clear, breezy and nippy but not yet cold. Just the right temperature.
No matter how long I’ve been a parent, I’m still capable of being astonished by my own adult children. And let nobody tell you that “adult children,” that ultimate oxymoron, aren’t still works in progress.
The extra leaves for the dining room table have been dusted off and jammed into place. The 18 unmatched chairs are being assembled around that table in a dining room that seems to have shrunk since last Rosh Hashanah. A huge brisket is in the freezer.
There she was, resplendent in a black jumpsuit and a gold lame trapeze-style coat with lavish ruffles, no less.
No more first days of school at our house.