It’s the season.
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.
No more first days of school at our house.
Perhaps it was the way the sunlight hit her face. It was bright and unforgiving.
I remember as if it were yesterday.
While other people in my life could not grasp what it was like to do interviews of Holocaust survivors, my daughter Amy did.
It’s well after midnight, and I was in the kitchen enjoying a private binge of frozen cake straight from the package. I’m was feeling out of control, fat and guilty. My husband stumbled in, looking a bit panicky.
One of the sobering realities of growing older is the recognition that there are paths you’ll never wander again — that you swore you’d never want to.
The project is so monumental that we’ve put if off for eight years. And that’s a lot of procrastinating.