Today is my birthday. Happy birthday to me! I am 38 for those who are curious. Now, I have never been one for freaking out over getting older, though when I turned 20 I do distinctly remember thrashing around my dorm room distraught that no matter what I did I would no longer ever be considered a ch
I have been wondering recently if it is it OK for me to write about my son here. I tell funny stories about him, my challenges with motherhood and, what got me thinking about this, our struggles with his developmental delay.
I really want to go to Paris. I have been to Paris, several times actually. I’ve seen The Louvre and eaten the food. But for some reason Paris gnaws at me as something I am missing.
At the eight-week ultrasound, it was apparent even before the doctor said anything definitive. I looked at the monitor and there was just a space in a little black hole.
Ever since my 2-1/2-year-old son pointed to a picture of my mother and said, “Mommie,” I have been aware that I have fallen into the inevitable and have become my mother.
I recently took my son to the playground in New York City where I grew up. I looked around and all I could see was me, about 8 years old, in a red satin jacket lacing up my blue Adidas roller skates with the yellow stripes.
