I’ve been through the Boy Wars.
I grew up with seven brothers. I do have a sister, but with nine years and five brothers between us, boys dominated my childhood. Star Trek outvoted Partridge Family. I was street goalie to their Bobby Orrs. And I had to fight to use the bathroom so don’t even try to tell me about girls being bathroom hogs. Continue reading “Three is seventeen”
The Boy Moms at my sons’ grade school had a not-so-secret club. We were the ones who arrived early every afternoon, scanning the yard for forgotten lunch bags and hoodies. As kids spilled out the doors, the Boy Moms yelled for their boys, secured belongings, checked fists and pockets for teachers’ notes, then doled out snacks. Boy Moms Club would be in session, the Moms swapping advice and laughs while doling out bandages and warnings. Continue reading “Boy Moms Club”
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”
Written in the wake of US police shootings in the summer of 2016.
I just had an interesting conversation with my teenage son, saw how much of this week’s anguish and anger had seeped into his brain.
He’s angry at my generation and beyond for blowing it for so long, letting things get this bad. Fair enough.
