During the early days of 2020, my husband and I received an odd email from our middle-child, Anna, who was, at the time, in her last semester of college. Just like her mother, Anna had earned the title “Class Clown” in high school, so we knew from the first line that her email had been written tongue-in-cheek.
It went a little something like this:
Commentary
What’s the Value Proposition of Motherhood?
After eight hours of labor, a sort of delirium set in. My conscious brain was no longer in control. I fell into a sleep-like stupor between contractions, as if my body insisted on resting up for what was ahead…
Dirt in the hand is worth two in the bush
“If only, money grew on trees,” I grumbled, stooping to crawl under our hedges. I knew weeding and mulching the 150-foot row of privets that grows along the border of our property would take all day and render me unable to move without shooting back pains. But someone had to do it.
Yep, my kids are brats
Our oldest went to three high schools. He grew up in ten homes, in four states and two foreign countries. He said goodbye to seven best friends, six piano teachers, and four Boy Scout troops. He played on three varsity football teams, and his academic transcripts are almost as complicated as the US Tax Code.
What I believe about Hell and hand baskets