so this lovely young man gave me much advice about clambering out of the swimming hole in McKinney Park after he’d failed to bear me out of the water on his golden, sloping shoulders. And I told him my son might have been able to and he said, ‘where’s your son?’ And I said he’s at home, and he said, ‘so he’s with a babysitter, is he?’ And I said ‘no he’s a teenager.’ And my gentle gallant said, ‘Uggh, teenagers are the worst nightmare in the world.’ And we commiserated and shared stories.


I was once a #mother

No tears please.

My son is alive and well.

Put your handkerchiefs (or if the west, tissue) away.

It’s just that when they grow up, they act like they’re “#grownups.”

It’s so unreasonable. When I was in my thirties, if I went out with his Dad he bawled like I’d just killed his mother and was running away with the family jewels (pun). Now? If I stay home it’s to keep the light on for young Lord Lochinvar.

What happens to us when our children grow up? Partly, it sets me free that I don’t constantly worry about his well-being. And then the feeling of respite is washed over by waves and waves and waves of guilt that I’m not staying up to keep the light on for young Lord Lochinvar.

Love is such a complicated thing.

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