With every blossoming chestnut tree
Je me reviens à la ville de Paris
Strolling behind Nôtre Dame
Une glace Berthillon dans ma main.
Mothering
My Mother’s Day expectations have changed drastically over the years. In the early years, apart from handmade heart-melts from the boys, the pressure was all on my husband.
After we separated, the boys had to be trained to step up. Some years I was pleasantly surprised by breakfast in bed; other years I had to remind them, demanding ANY small token, like a cup of tea or doing dishes without dramatics. Continue reading “Mothering”