Today, my daughter, Hormonie, is thirteen. She may think January 6th, the Epiphany, is about her, but it’s all about me. Hermommie woke up looking like a Death Eater, the Dark Mark under each eye, […]
Tag Archives: mother
verklempt
photo by Steven Parke My daughter became a bat mitzvah a little over a week ago, and I can’t find the words to describe how I feel about it: about our weekly meetings with the […]
Broken
Bur first, an interview with the Ripstick Queen, two and a half years ago. Note: the helmet and wrist guards, the mother running beside the daughter to check for cars. It was common knowledge that […]
come by here
My daughter is about to become a bat mitzvah, literally translated, daughter of the commandments. It’s odd, if not ironic, because she’s already literally the daughter of two nonbelievers, as well as the granddaughter of […]
she will rock you—if there’s time
My daughter is running for student council president. I’m torn. She’s a great kid who will do a great job. But when will she have the time? I used to tsk at all those moms […]
summer lovin’, had me a blast
Today, I nearly suffocated in my daughter’s room, buried alive under a mountain of clothing, a lot of it gorgeous, most of it too small. Half still had tags; the other half was barely worn […]
the spot on the wall
part two For breakfast Monday morningI cook my daughter oatmeal perfect ratio of salt to sugar to oatsserved with teaspoon, splash of creambecause I am a bad motherout of milk since Friday. I scrub the […]
the spot on the wall
part one I told a friend I was having a bit of an identity crisis. I’m not sure what I am—an author, a photographer, a mosaic artist, just another creative Libra with undiag- nosed adult […]
oldies are goodies
My mother worked outside the home before any other mother I knew. She was a school teacher when I was little. Later, she took a job with some architects, as a secretary, sure, but she […]
the order of the teen-ix (xii)
This is where it starts to get hairy, literally. On Wednesday, my eleven-year-old daughter became—whisper it—twelve. On Twelfth Night, the anniversary of my own epiphany, Serena Joy Utah Miller began her after-dinner chores by dropping […]
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