Friday, October 21, 2016

As I reach the milestone of my 10th official Mother's Day, I find that I appreciate my own mother so much more.

There's no way of saying this without sounding like either a self-righteous health nut or a sadistic child hater - and I'm still somewhat on the fence over which is worse.

Every junkie has her jones. A smoker likes her cigarettes. A tippler likes her wine. Any addict needs her fix.

I didn't set out to become high-maintenance, really I didn't. I was tripping along, clam-happy, unmanicured, and completely wash-and-go through my 20s with nary a problem.

The nice thing about getting married is that you inherit a whole new set of people to fret about. My niece, for example, is aflutter about learning to drive.

I remember when I first made the clear connection between what I wore and how I felt. It was the dawn of middle school, which in our district was seventh grade.

I have long enjoyed reading the anniversary notices in the county paper. It is these little nuggets of society news that tell us that Lula and Orville have enjoyed 75 years of wedded bliss (having wed, apparently, at or around age nine).

Can this relationship be saved? When it comes to cleaning, my 9-year-old son thinks a horizontal surface is a space onto which he can drop trading cards, old homework, various action figures, and tiny plastic parts barely visible to the naked eye belonging to erector sets he does not even remember owning.

Lately, I have been late for everything and I just know daylight-saving time is to blame. OK, Heimlich yourselves.

Imagine my surprise to discover that I don't know how to answer my phone anymore. This is mainly because there is no surprise.
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