I was at dinner recently with an acquaintance when she whipped out a photo of her college-age son. The kid must have weighed close to 300 pounds. The mother is a strict vegan, so it was unexpected.
“That’s his plight in life,” she shrugged.
I was flabbergasted, but at the same time admired her nonchalance. I am constantly trying to rein in my good intentions and remind myself that my daughter, while a part of me, is not me.
Around 5:00 on New Year’s Day, I got the call. “You gotta come pick up this kid,” Savannah’s father blurted before I even had time to say hello.
Kid. It was that bad. He wasn’t even referring to Savannah by name.
By the time I arrived at his East Village apartment, she was calm, but a he said, she said debate was brewing about what triggered the meltdown. I suspected she was cranky from staying up till 3:00 a.m. the night before and domestic issues in his home, but at the point my only concern was how to prevent future outbursts.
Getting kids ready for school in the morning and herding cats: Let’s not kid ourselves. There ain’t no difference.
Earlier this year I dated a man who seemed perfect in every way until one night at a cozy downtown bistro he unleashed a tirade about his ex-girlfriend’s two adopted children.
“Oh, gawd, they were horrible,” he wailed. “I suggested she send them back to Russia.”
He snickered. I cringed.
Whoever said the show must go on has obviously never attended a grade school production.
I love those kids who stop on stage in the middle of performing to seek out mom and dad and wave.
Frightening is when you noticed that your kid is starting to sound like you. Using the same phrases, words and even gestures.
On our way to tap yesterday, Savannah sworn she saw Taylor Swift on Christopher Street in the West Village.