The thought of a wedding vow renewal crossed our minds.  But why?  It almost makes it seem as though we didn’t mean it the first time around.

Maybe a celebration of sorts—a party, or a getaway, or dressing like a bride and groom 35 years later.

Our family tends to enjoy photos.  Wherever we are, whatever holiday or event, we take pictures.  Our life could be seen as one, big fashion shoot.  That’s an idea:  take photos of a semi-bridal situation.

That seems to suit 35 years:  something glossy and glamorous.  Naturally, we’ll have to include the children, and make it fun for all.  That adds to the logistics, but also to the love.

Maybe a miniature wedding cake?  (Why do my thoughts turn toward chocolate at a time such as this?)

Or, holding hands under a huppah on a wind-swept mountaintop?

Riding horses on the beach, going off into the sunset?  Or, into a sunrise… only it’s difficult to do hair and makeup too early in the a.m….

A family meal?  No, that’s an everyday event around here….

A bicycle-built-for-two riding down a country lane in our finery, dropping rose petals along the path?

Me in pearls-and-satin, hugging two black Scottish terriers, held on my hip, or up close for a kiss on the cheek?

What would you suggest for a fancy wedding anniversary photo op?  Or, should we do something else entirely?

————

The more I considered such a gene, and the high probability that it may strike again from your mother’s generation to yours, the more I wondered if men were ever faced with such decisions.  I don’t know:  has it ever been considered to lop off parts of their bodies in order to increase their chances for survival?

A mastectomy sounds so primitive to our modern ears.  And yet, we have reconstructive surgery and so many options.  Granted, this gene does not apply to 99% of the population, yet, similar to a car wreck, we swivel our heads and thank the Lord that we were not involved.  I have only admiration for an actress, a public figure, who would come forward to share such a personal decision, indeed as others have in the past.  May it help someone, somewhere.

An abortion also seems horrific for so many reasons, particularly those heralded in the news these days with the Pennsylvania butcher-abortionist who appeared to care nothing for women, nor for their unborn babies, even those late-term ones who dared to live, and he dared to murder.  That’s not human, and it’s definitely not humane.  In my opinion, abortion should never have to happen to a woman, much less a baby.

Do men have any comparable medical decisions?  How about a hysterectomy?  Maybe a vasectomy comes close, but not really.

Nowadays, we think of medical “procedures” and it’s probably best for our mental health that we don’t ponder our physical health too extensively.  Basically, it’s butchering the body in order to have a chance at life.

I’m so sorry that women have to face such decisions in 2013.  But to realize that there are others of us, thinking of our sisters going through unspeakable measures, praying that they come out whole on the other side, hopefully eases the pain and psychic shock if even only a bit.

We stand with you, arm in arm.

————–

He and his father headed upstairs.  Petya had just gone back to work at his volunteer job after a hiatus of almost three months during his tennis season.  The glossy archaeology magazine was gracious and assured him that they were pleased with his office help enough to welcome his return when he was able.  That day had arrived.

“Mama, Mama, good news!” His smile was ear-to-ear, followed by his father’s.

“What?  What?  Tell me all!”

“Well, I wanted to tell you and Papa together,” he explained.  “When I got to work, I said hello to everyone, and they were all happy to see me.  We talked a couple of minutes about tennis, and then, the two ladies I work for said that they wanted to speak with me, along with the head of all the employees in the conference room.”

“At first I was nervous,” Petya said.  “Maybe they didn’t really want me back, after all.  But they said they were very pleased with my work, and how I’ve been with them over a year, almost two years, and that if it was okay with me and with my parents, they would be willing to start paying me for my time!  Paying me!!!”

You would think he had just been admitted to a Ph.D. program with the whoops and laughter emanating from his parents.  This had been a matter of prayer that he and I had discussed since he was now 16 and felt he should start earning some money.  I agreed with him, but explained our schedule of travel, and his full summer of tennis, interspersed with archaeology.  Not a whole lot of time remained.  So we became creative and he and his brother were thinking of possibly organizing spaces in their spare moments—pantries, garages, basements—whatever people wanted and needed.

And now this.

Granted, it was not millions.  He worked one afternoon a week, and it would be minimum wage.  He didn’t even work every week in a month, lol.  But, the flexibility and warm office atmosphere were a perfect match in so many ways.

“Look at it this way,” I commented when we all calmed down and stopped with the high-fives.  “You’ll have enough money to help you walk back and forth to the office!”

“Just call me Mr. Money-man!  I’m rich!” he enthused.  “Plus, this is real work experience, right?  They said I would be an intern!”

“Absolutely, it’s work experience.  Minimum wage is more than your allowance, that’s for sure…” I observed.  Turning to his father, I wondered aloud, “Should I stop with the allowance?”

“No, no, keep it coming, Mama,” Petya interjected.

He was the only child receiving a small allowance secretly, because he was actually… helpful.  It was enough to possibly buy a burger after a tennis match, just a token.  I didn’t believe in allowances just because the children breathed.  Plus, we met all of their needs, and they had enough hoarded birthday money from friends and relatives to allow them to give their parents loans, if need be.

At dinner, he shared with his siblings, and they were rather happy and surprised.  Only at lunchtime, one had been complaining that he was so “lucky” to have started his working career at age 15.

“He’s not getting paid,” Benedetto reminded them.  “He’s volunteering.”

“And you can volunteer, too.  Think of what you might enjoy doing, think of the skills that Petya put together on his resume’, whether it was typing 50 wpm, or speaking various languages, or a positive attitude…” I suggested.  “We can help you think of places that might be interesting.  You don’t have to come up with this all on your own.  We can work together.”

And now this.  He was getting paid!

That’s our big guy, embarking on a new phase of his life.

———–

To this day, it is a delicate balance whereby no Jew nor Christian may pray any closer than the Western Wall, an ancient retaining wall used to hold in the dirt platform supporting what was once the Temple.  The Muslims continue to build, shift, and rearrange structures on top of the Mount, while Israeli archaeologists are refused any access to see that antiquities are not being destroyed.

In this manner, a new mosque was built in 1996 to accommodate tens of thousands of worshipers.  It is underground in an area known as Solomon’s Stables, and which has nothing to do with King Solomon, but most likely was a stable for horses during the Crusader period.  By 1999, Muslims built new entrances, removing massive amounts of earth with bulldozers in an archaeologically-sensitive area, where probably small pickaxes needed to be used with care.  Approximately 400 truckloads of dirt were unceremoniously whisked away to a nearby valley, where they were dumped with disdain.

Long story short, it involves an archaeological student accused of antiquities theft when he started picking through the rubble and finding dumped columns, coins, and other ancient remains, and petitioning Israel’s Supreme Court to allow the rubble to be collected and examined archaeologically.  Once again, 400 truckloads made their way to the nearby Mount of Olives and a national park, Emek Tsurim, where sifting of the remains goes on six days a week.

I was privileged to be part of this project which has welcomed 150,000 volunteers over the last eight years, sifting through 170 of the 400 truckloads of rubble.  Workers come to spend anywhere from two hours, to a day, or a week at the wet sifting stations.  A bucket of rubble covered with water is given to each person, who then dumps the bucket on a mesh screen, rinsing out the mud to ensure that no artifact is inadvertently left behind in the container.  Then the rubble is spread out on the screen, and picked through, bit by bit, hosing off the mud whenever necessary.

Next to me an older couple from Arizona worked.

“Today’s your day!” I told them.

They had never done archaeological sifting before and recognizing whether the tiny pieces were important was not that easy.  An archaeologist worked alongside them.  Within two seconds, he found two mosaic pieces.  Within two minutes, he identified an ancient coin, Ottoman pottery pieces, and a tooth.

A tooth?  Don’t forget that there were many animal sacrifices at the Temple every day.

My own discoveries included a piece of green-glazed Crusader pottery, and several Roman mosaic pieces, chiseled into neat squares, and lots of everyday, plain old rocks.

Before we could dump our screens, a professional archaeologist came to clear the rubble, ensuring that nothing significant was being overlooked.  Then we headed to discuss our finds.

This was an activity that would be good for the entire family.  Generally, the sifting stations are packed with volunteers.  On my day, I headed there late on a warm Jerusalem afternoon, hiking in through an olive grove, being dropped by a taxi driver nervous about driving on the gravel road.

A pickup truck roared up the hill with two archaeologist-types, dusty, and hauling equipment.

“Is this the place?” I asked in Hebrew.

“Can’t you smell it, the fragrance of archaeology in the air?” one called back.

I noticed no fragrance other than the quiet of a hillside when time stands still and one enters the hallowed halls of history.  The birds sang, the wind rustled leaves, and we collected artifact after artifact pointing to earlier civilizations residing just a stone’s throw away.

————–

This year, hers was masks.

Our oldest daughter loves masks.  She would be great in a Mardi Gras or Carnivale setting.  She and her sister have bought masks for themselves.  They simply love the idea of either masking who they really are, or being someone else.

Mashenka is not unattractive.  She has a pretty smile, face, hair.  It’s not like there’s a major flaw or blemish that she needs to hide.  Instead, it’s about who she imagines herself to be on the inside.

She has no identity, or if she does, it’s all about self-loathing and hatred, and mourning her past rather than celebrating her present.  Birthdays are hardest, when she appears to hate the day she was born, and that her birthmother could have cared less whether she lived or died.  Yes, adoption often overshadows what should be the fun and carefree days of her youth.

“Mashenka, what kind of cake would you like this year?” I cheerfully inquired a month ago, wondering if she had an idea about flavor, color, or theme.

“I dunno….”

“Well, let’s think about what you like…” I tried to guide her into at least eliminating some ideas.

Meltdown.  So I backed off.

Then she mentioned that she wanted the family to go out to eat for her birthday lunch.  Fine.  What did she have in mind?

“I dunno…” she hedged the issue.

I listed five or six possibilities, not one of them persuasive enough to make her commit.  Which pointed me to the mask theme.  She was most comfortable hiding behind something or someone else.

Occasionally, I would discuss persuasive essays with the children, how a student had to choose one position and argue that point. 

She would argue both sides, she informed me.

Obviously a self-esteem and confidence issue, Mashenka didn’t care to show her cards, lest she lose the entire game.  So, she opted out, which meant, she never even got to play the game, and that was sad.

But we have to work with the hand that we’re dealt in life, so we decided to make lemonade out of our lemons, and let her have her masked day, where she would feel most comfortable.  And she loved it.

We had a glittery gold mask on the cake, she wore a bright red feather mask, and the rest of us joined her in donning masks for the celebrations.  As was our custom, we snapped a photo of the family, surrounding the birthday person in question.

Did this help to solve Mashenka’s issues?  Not at all.  Did it celebrate her persona, even if it was hidden and unknown?  Absolutely.  Did it bolster her confidence and make her feel like she could have something to offer?  Yes and yes.

Baby steps.  Acknowledging children for who they are, instead of who we feel they should be.

Priceless.

————-

It was while we were engaged in archaology on Virginia’s Eastern Shore that I spied a thrift shop across the street from our site.

“You really need to go visit,” others enthused.  “You DO go to thrift stores, don’t you?”

Apparently, this was a part-time hobby with many.

“Well,” I stammered, “we take a lot of our kids’ older clothes to Goodwill and the Salvation Army….”

The archaeologists and volunteers explained that this was not an establishment to be missed, about the only business in the small town of just over 200 inhabitants.  Yet, the second-hand store always appeared to be closed.

“Are they ever open?” I asked.

“Well, that’s the catch,” they laughed.  “They’re open on Fridays and Mondays, 9-12.”

It was now Sunday afternoon.  I pointed out that our work day lasted from 8:00 am till 4:00 pm, and our lunchtime lasted from 12:00 to 12:30.

“Just sneak on over,” the archaeologists suggested.  “It’s not like you’re on the clock.”

There were benefits to being a volunteer, but, conscientious soul that I was, I vowed to make it a quick five minutes.  It was now nearing 10:00 am and for the past hour, a steady stream of customers headed into the unassuming shop.  Dressed in my archaeology/ rain gear, I pulled my Indiana Jones hat low, and wiped my mud-caked boots at the door, as my face blushed and my heart raced.

Three older white women manned the front desk… which was… an old desk near the door.  They seemed to be DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) types.

“Good morning,” I greeted them cheerily, hoping they would not notice my personage very much.

Old books and glassware cluttered the front shelves.  My eyes darted over the items, wondering if perhaps there were any “finds” among the merchandise.  Noting nothing of much interest, I moved toward the clothes, as an elderly black woman haggled over a price with the powers that be.

“The price was marked 30 cents,” she protested unsuccessfully.

“No, the prices are clearly marked.  Blouses are 50 cents each,” they would not budge.

I made my way towards the ladies’ jackets and two immediately caught my eye.  One was an Elie Tahari raw silk skirt suit, a lime and beige plaid affair with fringe at the cuffs and hem, very sophisticated and a bit retro, Mashenka’s favorite green color.  Her birthday was coming up, and it was her size.  If new, this would easily retail for over $500.

Looking for the price, a small tag attached with a safety pin stated:  $7.

Oh my.  Was that correct?

Nearby, another jacket, this time in solid lime looked to be Sashenka’s size 4.  It was also raw silk with cute gold star buttons down the front, on the two chest pockets, and on the fold-back cuffs, made by Carlisle.  This would be in the same price range as the Tahari, if new.

Glancing for the price, my eyes fell upon masking tape attached to the label:  $4.

Apparently, this was where the local society ladies unloaded last year’s wardrobes.  At these prices, I could take a gamble on the girls liking the styles.  Heading to the front desk, I spied a wild, vintage tie that one of the guys might like, and added that to my pile.

Asking the ladies to hold my things, I needed to run to the car and grab my wallet out of the trunk, explaining that I was with the archaeological team across the street.

“Now, dear,” they counseled, “you’d best run and get it now.  We can’t really hold items, and these will go quickly.  That will be $12 altogether.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right back.”

And thus my five minutes turned to ten.  They wanted to meet my son, so I ran and brought him in.  The ladies were in on the fact that we had snuck away, but still wanted to discuss the archaeology of the area and get any hot tips on why we might be excavating on their town green.  They had bagged my purchases, so I paid the $12, and away we went.

Within the next hour, I saw them close-up and head out, perhaps 25 customers having visited the ladies that morning.  Back at our hotel, I showed off the purchases, only then realizing that the $1 tie never made it into the bag.

Ah well, maybe the ladies had decided that the wild tie did not at all go with the style and refinement of the other items purchased.  Maybe they were right, I chuckled to myself, considering it a $1 donation to a good cause.

What a wonderful, small-town find!

————-

For 13 hours on an international airline flight, I had to endure a nearby gentleman’s honking and snorting.  He basically drowned out the noise of the plane engines, with his own cacophonous brass band.  What to do?

My possible choices:

1.  Awaken him.  “Yo, dude, you’re embarrassing yourself and your entire gender!  Get a grip!”

2.  Ask the flight attendants to attend and intervene.  (They won’t, unless it’s causing bodily injury, which it might—namely, his—if he keeps it up.)

3.  Gently push on the back of his seat (he’s in front of me, Mr. 19F, you know who you are), increasing the pressure until the seat breaks in half and he’s paralyzed or has whiplash for life.  (Can paralyzed people snore?  I mean, the immobilization is only from the neck down, right?)

4.  Bop him on his baseball-cap head.

I can’t believe I forgot my earplugs.  Headphones are just not the same….

———

(What did I do?  A modification of #3—using my “touch screen display” on the back of his head rest as my point of contact, lol.  Worked.)

———

Usually, I rent from local companies when abroad.  The last time I was in Israel, there was an issue with using a debit card, and I no longer possess any credit card.  Didn’t want to go through that again. 

Benedetto suggested that I go with an American rental car agency.  They would understand debit cards, etc.

“Okay, can you call them to make sure?” I asked.

“Yes, but it’s no big deal.  I use my debit card all the time–.”

“So do I, but I’m telling you, the last time–.”

He calls and they say yes, of course, no problem.

Arriving at the airport in Tel Aviv, it’s another matter entirely.  No way, Jose’  Or, ein derech, Yosef.

“But my husband called Hertz in America,” I protested.

“But that’s not us.”

“He called your international desk,” I shook my head.

“They don’t have the same credit procedures that we have,” they shook back.

“Look, you can use a debit card as a credit card.  It’s virtually the same thing.”

“No, we would have to take a big deposit from the card, and then, in Israel, we cannot return that money back to you.  It’s a different system….”

“Listen, he called and checked.  They said fine.”

And so we stood there, discussing in Hebrew for 30 minutes or so.  All this with jet lag.  They finally called the bank of my card and got approval.  Then you might remember my account of needing to walk back and forth from distant parking garage to terminal and back again.  I guess the exercise was intended to get the blood flowing through my plane-induced, swollen, sausage-like legs that resembled the circumference of Sequoia tree trunks at that point.

Finally, I got the car out of the twisting and turning parking garage, got the ticket from the machine, inserted the ticket into another machine when leaving the airport, headed out onto the highway, and it sounded like the car is going to blow up.

Drove it for another two days, without a spare minute to return it, praying that I won’t be stalled on the side of the road.  At last, I decided to return it before the one-day weekend, Shabbat, the sabbath, which means I needed to be in their office on Friday as everything comes to a close in the early afternoon.

Benedetto:  Take it back on Friday.

Me:  I’m concerned about Shabbat, they might be very busy.

Benedetto:  I called the international desk and they say you need to call the Tel Aviv office at the airport.  If you return it to Jerusalem, it will be like breaking the contract.

I call the number.  The guy says to come right then (Thursday night) and return the car to the airport.  I tell him I’m not about to travel a two-hour round-trip at this time of night.

Guy:  Okay, return it in Jerusalem.

Me:  My husband said I need Tel Aviv’s permission to return it here. 

Guy:  Alright, let me connect you to customer service.

After being on hold for over six minutes, I hang up.  Did I mention I’m having cell phone issues, too?

Benedetto calls Tel Aviv, speaks with a supervisor, asks if this is how they treat “Gold Card” members?  The guy says he will send Jerusalem an e-mail to have a car ready and waiting by 8:00 a.m. when they open.

I arrive at 8:15 on Friday morning.  They’ve never heard of me.  They doubt they have a car in my class, which is not even my class anyway, since they did not have my car at the airport and I’ve already been downgraded once, when I refused to be upgraded to a gas-guzzler.

“Listen, you should have an e-mail from Tel Aviv, explaining the situation.  There should be a car here waiting for me.  You are wasting my time,” I intone.

“It’s okay, they will prepare the car.  You go upstairs, have coffee and water, and relax–.”

“Um, I really don’t want to drink coffee, I want to hit the road.  Shabbat will be beginning and I can’t sit here.”

She promises me it will be “two minutes’.  Then a Dutch man enters, with his own tale of woe.  Apparently, they informed him that he needed to return his car and switch to another, midway through his stay.  They didn’t seem to have a car for him, either.

As his story went on and on, I stood up and strolled back over to the counter.  It had been 15 minutes.  She saw me and called to the garage and said it was ready.  I should walk to the stone wall, and go down the ramp into the underground garage.  Fine.

I walk down.  The guys look at me blankly.

“Is this my car?” I point.

“Where’s your car?” they ask.

“In front of your office.”

“Bring it here.”

Well, that about did it for me.

“Bring it here?  The girl just told me to walk down here.  You go and get it,” I suggested, having hiked up and down one hill too many already that day on my way to get my car and bring it to their office.

“Excuse me, but you must return it here, and then we can give you this one.”

Back up the steep ramp I walk, get the car, bring it down.  Then the guys tell me to walk back up and get the paperwork.  When I bring them the paperwork, they will give me the key.

Back up I go, telling them a thing or two about third-world nations, get the paperwork, come back down…. and nobody is there.   All of the workers have fled.

So I go into the bowels of the parking garage, shouting out if anyone is there.  At last, one guy comes driving another car, parks that, and goes to get my key.

As I drive away, I realize that the back of my seat will not adjust.  I am driving hunched over, in excruciating pain after the first ten minutes.  I go to play a CD that I brought with me, a taped book, that seems to keep repeating information.  Takes me about an hour to figure out that at the end of each track, it repeats the same track, rather than going on to the next.  By the time I arrive at my intended destination an hour-and-a-half away, it’s 10:30 a.m. on a Friday morning in Israel, when there’s no parking anywhere as people either finish work, shop for food, or take a half day off before Shabbat.

Rather than return back after accomplishing nothing, I do the only sensible thing, parking the car halfway up on the curb of a halfway-legal parking space.  I enjoy the rest of my day, against all odds.  Hertz can try to hurt me, but I think I’m done renting from them, at least  outside of the U.S.

Best to go with a local rental agency, and leave it at that.

————-

I’m concerned about the kids, the husband, the dogs.  They all need my help.  Maybe I have no more help to go around and I’ve cut myself out of the picture?

Today, I’m embarrassed to say, I walked into a top hair salon in Jerusalem looking like a war refugee.  Or a bag lady.

They looked upon me with horror.

They can’t do that.  I am a glamorous person, or at least used to be, but certainly wasn’t today.

I was engaged in archaeology, and covered in dust, and mud, and sweat.  I had ducked into a couple of restrooms (loose term) throughout the day to freshen up, but still….

There was a big khaki sunhat pulled down on my head, moreso than normal because the wind whipped up in late afternoon.  Then a ponytail looped back up, almost making a sloppy, low bun to keep it off my back, then khaki pants and a long white linen tunic top, with some tennis-shoe-like footwear.  Oh, and a big scarf for the neck, just in case one square centimeter of skin was exposed.  Did I mention an absoutely horrible sling-like bag that only a tourist, or a starving student, might wear cross-chest?  (Hey, I knew I would be in hot, dry, humid, wet and windy conditions all day long, and left my purse behind.)

In my defense, I was wearing makeup and jewelry, and I didn’t smell bad.  That counts for something, right?

This did not impress the salon owner.  The first man I encountered, looking straight off some Italian runway, would not even speak to me, but motioned to the head honcho of the exquisite establishment.  All of them were dressed in black, and I normally dress in black, but not today, because I was in tunnels and working with artifacts, and hiking up and down thousands of stone steps, and carrying big bottles of water in my sling at all times….

I wanted to say:  “Hello, I was just kidnapped by aliens, because never in a million years would I ever look like this in my own country, but because I’m thousands of miles from home, I felt I had a little leeway, even though I keep seeing people that I know, and I’m trying to hide from them under this huge hat, because I have way too much work to do, and I don’t have time to socialize.  By the way, I need to go to a special event, and wondered if you ever just style hair for a special evening, and how much advance notice would I need to give you if indeed you accepted my humble plea and personage and decided to assist the bag lady standing before you and transform her into something of a sensation?”

Anyway, I said something much shorter, while not further debasing myself.  I held my head up high, until he asked to see what lay beneath the hat.  Not a pretty sight after sweating all day underneath.  Oh well.  He said to give him a day or two’s notice and he’d be happy to assist.

No updos.  He works half a day on Mondays, and not on Saturdays, of course.  Either blown straight, or with curls.

Sleek, elegant.  Maybe this could herald a return to the real me.  I tried not to rehash the scene too much in my mind, since I have a limited time here left, and ya gotta do what ya gotta do.  I was in the neighborhood, as they say, and thought this was as good a time as ever to inquire.

Have you embarrassed yourself recently?

————-

I was a Johnny-come-lately mother.

Nobody wanted to hear me sing lullabies, though I prepped myself in several languages (just in case).  There were a couple of ouchies to soothe or assuage with a bandaid.  No diapers to change, but lots of personal hygiene lessons to give… that most of them resisted.

It was a strange dance from the beginning, full of commands and instructions, simply to preserve life and limb.  (Do NOT open that car door while we’re driving on the highway!  Do NOT stick your face in front of the dog’s face in a threatening way—he doesn’t know that you’re playing.  Do NOT “borrow” things from other people without asking.  Look both ways before you cross the street.  Do NOT swim out into the deep water!)

These were older kids, preteens at the time, ones that you would imagine would know or understand all sorts of things which they did not.  So I compensated and did what I could to exemplify a caring mother, while keeping them safe.  I focused a bunch on the more utilitarian aspects of motherhood, something they had never experienced, the steady presence of one who cared.

I sewed hems, I sewed buttons, I took in waistbands of those who arrived gaunt and malnourished.  I cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so they needn’t be concerned that meals would be irregular (very big issue in the beginning—is there going to be lunch?  dinner?  when will we eat again?).  I decorated their rooms, making them cute and bright, but hopefully not over-the-top as in too much sensory stimulation.  I bought them toys that would encourage interaction and warmth, rather than electronics to help them stay aloof and separate.  I spent time with them, discussing and rehashing their concerns, questions, and fears.  I baked them homemade birthday cakes, and made them special treats of the sugary variety.  I spoke highly of their father, maybe too highly, when they started to like him more than me!

That’s what it looks like to be a Johnny-come-lately mother.

Today, I spend my spare hours researching colleges and cutting-edge, in-demand careers that might not require an extreme fluency in English, math, history, social studies, or science.  I teach my boys to treat girls with respect, and my girls to find a life outside of any over-dependence on a guy.  I want them to cherish family life and be good citizens, friends, and mates.

I show them that their whole life is before them.  No matter what time they “lost”, now we’re making up for it.  They have every reason to be optimistic, to reach for the stars, or simply to settle in and be their best.

I aim to be their cheerleader, prayer warrior, and confidante.  I hope to emanate love and kindness, while holding them accountable, and letting them know the buck stops here.  I pray that in ways small or large, I am a good example for them.

I am their Johnny-come-lately mother, and if they’re making up for lost time, so am I.

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!

————-