“Mom! Can you help me?!” I hear that phrase throughout the day, invariably bellowed from some other room in the house while I’m trying to cook, clean, answer emails, put away groceries, fold laundry, take a shower, write my column, or watch a DVRed episode of The Bachelorette while savoring an afternoon cup of microwaved…
Self Help
Attack of the Killer Teens
This week, my youngest child turned thirteen, making me the mother of three teenagers. For those readers who have raised (i.e., survived) teenagers, I could end my column here. There’s no need for lengthy anecdotes. Upon reading my first sentence, other parents of teens most likely heaved a collective groan, and instantly understood the prickly…
Over the river, and off the Beltway
“Grams, could we make brownies?” my daughter asks, already knowing the answer. “Is the Pope a Catholic?” replies my husband’s mother, smiling up at Anna, who has at least a half a foot on her now. Short but feisty. Born of Irish heritage. Humbly brought up in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. Married fifty-three years to a…
My sailor won’t batten down the hatches!
Ahoy, fellow Milspouses! Are you tethered to a soldier who doesn’t know how to hang a ceiling fan? Does your airman plead ignorance when it’s time to program the remote? Are you anchored to a sailor who can’t assemble the baby’s crib? Does your marine call the plumber when the faucet leaks? If you answered,…
What I believe about Hell and hand baskets