Difference Between Mom And Mother Quotes

The big difference between my mom and me-- besides the fact that she is dead normal and I'm a magic-handling freak-- is that she's the real thing. She may have a slight problem seeing other people's points of view, but she's honest about it. She's a brass-bound bitch because she believes she knows best. I'm a brass-bound bitch because I don't want anyone getting close enough to find out what a whiny little knot of naked nerve endings I really am.

remember this: When you cross my doorstep, you have already been raised. With what you have learned...you know the difference between right and wrong. Do right. Don't anybody raise you from the way you have been raised. Know you will have to make adaptations, in love, in relationships, in friends, in society, in work, but don't let anybody change your mind.

The only dream I ever had was the dream of New York itself, and for me, from the minute I touched down in this city, that was enough. It became the best teacher I ever had. If your mother is anything like mine, after all, there are a lot of important things she probably didn't teach you: how to use a vibrator; how to go to a loan shark and pull a loan at 17 percent that's due in thirty days; how to hire your first divorce attorney; what to look for in a doula (a birth coach) should you find yourself alone and pregnant. My mother never taught me how to date three people at the same time or how to interview a nanny or what to wear in an ashram in India or how to meditate. She also failed to mention crotchless underwear, how to make my first down payment on an apartment, the benefits of renting verses owning, and the difference between a slant-6 engine and a V-8 (in case I wanted to get a muscle car), not to mention how to employ a team of people to help me with my life, from trainers to hair colorists to nutritionists to shrinks. (Luckily, New York became one of many other moms I am to have in my lifetime.) So many mothers say they want their daughters to be independent, but what they really hope is that they'll find a well-compensated banker or lawyer and settle down between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-eight in Greenwich, Darien, or That Town, USA, to raise babies, do the grocery shopping, and work out in relative comfort for the rest of their lives. I know this because I employ their daughters. They raise us to think they want us to have careers, and they send us to college, but even they don't really believe women can be autonomous and take care of themselves.

My mother, of course, had a different opinion. 'They're driving me crazy!' she said, swatting at them with her beige Coach handbag. 'How can you tell?' my dad asked. 'Between your menopause craziness and your turning fifty craziness and everything else?' 'Forty-eight!' my mom cried. Dad groaned. 'Have you forgotten who you're lying to?

I'm getting tired of Nancy Drew," I told my mother. "The books are all the same." Once I'd become attuned to the pattern of each plot, it became glaringly obvious how alike they were. Mom nodded sagely. "You've discovered the difference between good literature and trash.

It was a woman in Minnesota who clarified this shift for me. She pointed out that her mother called herself a housewife. She, on the other hand, called herself a stay at home mom. The change in nomenclature reflects the shift in cultural emphasis: the pressures on women have gone from keeping an immaculate house to being an irreproachable mom … Back in the fifties, women were told to master the differences between oven cleaners and floor wax and special sprays for wood; today they’re told to master the differences between toys that hone problem solving skills and those that encourage imaginative play.

In a mass society where obtaining credit is as easy as it is, there’s probably no way to efficiently collect on delinquent accounts by writing real affidavits, filing legitimate, error-free lawsuits, and serving legitimate summonses in each and every individual case. Without the shortcuts, it doesn’t work. So techniques like robo-signing and sewer service are essential to the profitability of the business. Plenty of people—consumers and merchants both—are probably glad that so much credit is available, but they don’t realize that systematic fraud is part of what makes it available. Legally, there’s absolutely no difference between a woman on welfare who falsely declares that her boyfriend no longer lives in the home and a bank that uses a robo-signer to cook up a document swearing that he has kept regular records of your credit card account. But morally and politically, they’re worlds apart. When the state brings a fraud case against a welfare mom, it brings it with disgust, with rage, because in addition to committing the legal crime, she’s committed the political crime of being needy and an eyesore. Banks commit the legal crime of fraud wholesale; they do so out in the open, have entire departments committed to it, and have employees who’ve spent years literally doing nothing but commit, over and over again, the same legal crime that some welfare mothers go to jail for doing once. But they’re not charged, because there’s no political crime. The system is not disgusted by the organized, mechanized search for profit. It’s more like it’s impressed by it.

At the very same time that we witnessed the explosion of white celebrity moms, and the outpouring of advice to a surveillance of middle-class mothers, the welfare mother, trapped in a "cycle of dependency," became ubiquitous in our media landscape, and she came to represent everything wrong with America. She appeared not in the glossy pages of the women's magazines but rather as the subject of news stories about the "crisis" in the American family and the newly declared "war" on welfare mothers. Whatever ailed America--drugs, crime, loss of productivity--was supposedly her fault. She was portrayed as thumbing her nose at intensive mothering. Even worse, she was depicted as bringing her kids into the realm of market values, as putting a price on their heads, by allegedly calculating how much each additional child was worth and then getting pregnant to cash in on them. For middle-class white women in the media, by contrast, their kids were priceless, these media depictions reinforced the divisions between "us" (minivan moms) and "them" (welfare mothers, working-class mothers, teenage mothers), and did so especially along the lines of race. For example, one of the most common sentences used to characterize the welfare mother was, "Tanya, who has_____ children by ______ different men" (you fill in the blanks). Like zoo animals, their lives were reduced to the numbers of successful impregnations by multiple partners. So it's interesting to note that someone like Christie Brinkley, who has exactly the same reproductive MO, was never described this way. Just imagine reading a comparable sentence in Redbook. "Christie B., who has three children by three different men." But she does, you know.

One night, when Violet’s parents had gone out, he teased her about it, whispering against her throat, “I should probably be dating girls my own age now that you’ll be over-the-hill.” Jay was stretched out on Violet’s bed as she curled against him. Violet laughed, rising to the bait. “Fine,” she challenged, pulling away and leaning up on her elbow. “I’m sure there are plenty of men my own age who would be willing to finish what you’ve started.” Jay stiffened, and Violet realized that she’d struck a nerve. “What is it?” He shook his head, and Violet thought he might say, “Nothing,” so when he answered, his words caught her off guard. “Is there someone else, Vi?” Violet frowned, baffled by the unfamiliar jealousy she saw on his face. She wondered what in the world he meant as she reached down and smoothed a strand of hair from his forehead. “What are you talking about, Jay?” His eyes met hers. “I saw you with that guy at the movies, Vi. Who was he?” Violet closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t want to tell him about the FBI, about Sara and Rafe or what she’d learned about Mike’s mother. She wondered briefly if he knew about Mike’s mom-if his friend had ever confided in him. But somehow she doubted it. Jay wasn’t like her; he didn’t keep secrets. “It’s not like that,” she explained, hoping that would be enough. Jay got up and went to the window, pushing the curtain aside. Every muscle in his body was rigid. “Like what, Vi? What’s going on? Something’s been bothering you lately. Why can’t you tell me?” He was right. She owed it to him to at least try. “I don’t know how to explain, but I just feel like everything’s changed between us-“ “Of course it’s changed, Violet, what’d you expect?” Violet tried to ignore the bitterness in his voice, telling herself she had no right to be hurt. “It used to be that I would never keep secrets from you. You were my best friend. But now that we’re dating, it’s just…different. I feel like I have to watc what I say, or you get all worried. Sometimes I just want you to be the old Jay again, so I can talk to you.” Violet crept up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back.

Stop.” He shot in front of me, moving so fast I didn’t see him until we were face to face. “Please just . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say, Josie.” I winced, feeling what he was saying all the way to the core. “That . . . that says everything, Seth, because if you don’t—” My voice cracked, right along with what was left of my heart. “If you don’t know what to say, then that’s it.” “You don’t understand.” His voice was low.“I don’t understand anything.” Heart aching, I stepped to the side, but Seth followed. “Please, just let me go. We can forget we even had—” He clasped my cheeks in a gentle grasp. “No one has ever told me that before.” “What?” I whispered after a moment. His eyes were wide, slightly dilated. “No one has ever said they loved me or were in love with me, and actually meant it.” I couldn’t believe that. Not even his mother? Yes, that was a different kind of love, but then I remembered how his mom was and once again I found myself wishing she was alive so I could bitch-slap her into eternity. But to live the years he had, and to never experience any kind of love wasn’t just wrong, it was sad. I wished it wasn’t so. Seth’s hands slid down my neck, stopping where his thumbs pressed against my pulse. “But you . . .” I had a choice here. I recognized that. I could save face and let this go. I could pull away and walk out of this room, but I was hurting for myself and despite everything that had gone on between us, I was still hurting for him. Maybe that. “But I love you.” Seth’s hands shook—his hands. Hands that were always so steady in battle, but they trembled now, touching me. “I don’t deserve that from anyone, but especially from you.” Voice rough and heavy, he searched my face intently. “That is a precious gift that I . . . that I am not worthy of.” I sucked in air. Oh gosh, that hurt. Hearing him say that tore me up, ripped me right apart, and it struck me then. I knew why he had backed off. Him pushing me away had nothing to do with Alex or with me. It was because of him, because of how he believed he deserved nothing more than punishment. That he sincerely believed that the only thing he had was to atone for his past sins. Tears pricked my eyes as I folded my hands over his wrists. I had to prove what he believed wasn’t true. Prove that he was the total of everything he’d done and not just the dark things he was ashamed of, and I would do so, because I loved him and accepted him for who he was, for all his faults. That was what love meant.

Hey," she whispered to Malachi. "When are Irin considered adults?" He was following what looked to be a quiet argument between Sari and Mala. "Full adults? Around sixty to seventy-five years. When we're finished with our training. Why?" She flushed. Wow. "So, you're quite the cradle robber, aren't you?" Malachi turned to her abruptly. "What? No, I'm not." "I'm not even thirty. That's like... a teenager to you guys." She could see the flush crawl up his neck, even behind the beard. "You're human. You mature differently." "But I'm not really human." His shoulders were stiff and his posture screamed his discomfort. It was really a shame Ava found teasing him to be so amusing. "I mean, what would your mom say if she found out you were mated-and I mean well and thoroughly mated- to what she would basically consider a kid?" He wiped a hand over his forehead. "Heaven above, please stop talking." "So are we going to stop fooling around now?" He groaned. "Ava." "I'm just yanking your chain." "You're going to have to speak up, because the mental lecture my mother's memory is giving me right now is rather loud.

Nina looked at her. 'Everyone describes him so differently.' She paused, unsure. 'He was one guy, but there's no consensus about what he was like. For Peter's mom, he was a blowhard who drank too much; for Millie, he was the kindest man in the world who made endless time for her.' Eliza shrugged. 'People change. There's forty years between the William that Peter's mom knew and the William that Millie knew. Parents get stuck in the amber of childhood, right? Whenever my parents visit, I feel myself becoming a cranky fourteen-year-old. I saw William through the lens of being his wife; I look at Millie only as her mother... You see what I mean?' 'Sure. So I'll never see my dad properly, only through the filter of other people's opinions.' 'Or maybe it'll average out and you'll be the only one who sees the real him.' Nina laughed. 'Maybe there is no real thing for anyone. Maybe all of us change depending on where we are and who we're with.' 'And that's why you like to be alone.' Eliza looked at her and smiled. 'How do you mean?' 'Because you prefer who you are when you're alone.' Nina shrugged. 'It takes a lot of energy to be with other people. It's easier to be myself when there's no one else there.' 'Some people take energy; some people give energy... Occasionally, you get lucky and find someone whose energy balances your own and brings you into neutral.' She paused. 'My God, I've been in Malibu too long. I said that completely without irony.' Nina laughed. 'It was really convincing. I think I even heard a tiny temple bell ringing somewhere...' Eliza made a face at herself. 'Your dad used to say being with me was as good as being alone.' Eliza laughed. 'I think he meant it as a complement.' The two women looked at each other. 'I think we're overthinking this,' said Eliza. 'More wine?

Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness.

history—what had happened between me and David. Further disregarding the Gilbert Family Standard Communications Rule-book, I actually told her. I told her everything. I told her how much I loved David, but how lonely and heartsick it made me to be with this person who was always disappearing from the room, from the bed, from the planet. “He sounds kind of like your father,” she said. A brave and generous admission. “The problem is,” I said, “I’m not like my mother. I’m not as tough as you, Mom. There’s a constant level of closeness that I really need from the person I love. I wish I could be more like you, then I could have this love story with David. But it just destroys me to not be able to count on that affection when I need it.” Then my mother shocked me. She said, “All those things that you want from your relationship, Liz? I have always wanted those things, too.” In that moment, it was as if my strong mother reached across the table, opened her fist and finally showed me the handful of bullets she’d had to bite over the decades in order to stay happily married (and she is happily married, all considerations weighed) to my father. I had never seen this side of her before, not ever. I had never imagined what she might have wanted, what she might have been missing, what she might have decided not to fight for in the larger scheme of things. Seeing all this, I could feel my worldview start to make a radical shift. If even she wants what I want, then…? Continuing with this unprecedented string of intimacies, my mother said, “You have to understand how little I was raised to expect that I deserved in life, honey. Remember—I come from a different time and place than you do.

My mother and brother don’t need me to leave word to know where I am. And this is how things are between Cyra and me,” Akos said, defensive. “She plotted for weeks to send me away without telling me about it. How is this different?” “It is not particularly different,” Ara said. “But that doesn’t make it right, either time.” “Don’t scold him, Mom,” Jorek said. “He was basically born scolding himself.” “Scold me all you like,” Akos said. “Especially because I’m about to ask for something you won’t like.” Jorek’s arm snaked across the table, and he stole some meat from Akos’s plate. “I want you to let me into the back gate of Noavek manor,” Akos said. Jorek choked on the meat he was now chewing, prompting Ara to thump him on the back with her fist. “What are you going to do once you’re inside?” Ara said, narrowing her eyes. “It’s better if you don’t know,” Akos said. “Akos. Trust me. Even you, pupil of Cyra Noavek, are out of your depth with Lazmet,” Jorek said, after he had swallowed his bite. “There isn’t a single shred of decency in him. I don’t think he even has the capacity for it. If he finds you, he’ll turn you into a goddamn stew.” “He won’t kill me,” Akos said. “Why, because of your stunning good looks?” Jorek snorted. “Because I’m his son,” Akos said. Ara and Jorek stared at him in silence. Akos pushed his plate across the table, toward Jorek. “Want my roll?” he said.

There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Akos said. “I was wondering when you’d get to the point,” Jorek said. Ara set a plate down in front of Akos. There wasn’t much on it--a roll, probably a little stale by now, some dried meat, some pickled saltfruit. She brushed the crumbs off her fingers and sat down next to her son. “What Jorek means is, we like having you here, but we know you don’t do things without a good reason,” Ara said, flicking the side of her son’s nose to chastise him. “And crossing the galaxy is no small thing.” Jorek rubbed his nose. “Not everyone can wait things out on Ogra. Some of us have to get our hands dirty,” Akos said. “But those who can stay safe, should,” Ara said. Akos shook his head. “I had to get my hands dirty, too. Call it…fate.” “I call it a choice,” Jorek said. “And a dumb one.” “Like leaving your girlfriend--and your mother and brother--without a word of explanation,” Ara said, and she clicked her tongue. “My mother and brother don’t need me to leave word to know where I am. And this is how things are between Cyra and me,” Akos said, defensive. “She plotted for weeks to send me away without telling me about it. How is this different?” “It is not particularly different,” Ara said. “But that doesn’t make it right, either time.” “Don’t scold him, Mom,” Jorek said. “He was basically born scolding himself.

My mother and brother don’t need me to leave word to know where I am. And this is how things are between Cyra and me,” Akos said, defensive. “She plotted for weeks to send me away without telling me about it. How is this different?” “It is not particularly different,” Ara said. “But that doesn’t make it right, either time.” “Don’t scold him, Mom,” Jorek said. “He was basically born scolding himself.

In her perennial search for the best foods regardless of cuisine, exploring the vast cornucopia at her disposal, she'd realized that the little mom-and-pop restaurants in the mini-malls were where she found the mother lode of deliciousness. Why? Because immigrants operated them. They had brought their homeland's flavors in their suitcases and were adding them to the never-ending gastronomic experiment that took place every day in Los Angeles. She loved to observe, but more important, to participate in the frequent overlap between different cuisines, resulting in an endless continuum of delight and surprise. Multiply that by more than one hundred and fifty countries and you had yourself Angeleno cuisine.

I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.” “No! I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that the more we talk, the more I see you as a totally different person than I thought you were. I guess I can understand why Alex likes you.” “Thanks, I think. Remember when I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen between me and Alex?” “Yeah. Just so I get my timetable straight, that was before you kissed him. Right?” She chuckles, then says, “I’m just kidding, Brittany. If you like him, girl, go for it. But be careful, because even if I think he likes you more than he’ll admit, you should keep your guard up.” “I won’t stop it if something happens between me and Alex, but don’t worry. I always have my guard up.” “Me, too. Well, except for the night you slept at my house. I kinda fooled around with Paco. I can’t tell my friends ’cause they’d give me shit.” “Do you like him?” “I don’t know. I never thought about him that way before, but being with him was kinda nice. How was the kiss with Alex?” “Nice,” I say, thinking about how sensual it was. “Actually, Isabel, it was more than nice. It was fucking incredible.” Isabel starts laughing, and I laugh right along with her this time.

What’s going on?” he said. The wind breathed a cool breath across her skin, making her shiver. “What do you mean?” “Come on, Meridith—that kiss . . .” “It was just a kiss,” she said feebly, but her mind replayed the embrace, refuting her words. “You won’t even look at me.” His voice was strained. “Maybe we need to turn out the lights.” Her face burned. Even the wind couldn’t cool it. The grass at Jake’s feet shimmied and bowed over his scarred tennis shoes. “I don’t know what to say. I—I just can’t do this.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Why?” She searched the ground for answers like she’d find it among the blades of grass, pull it up by the roots, and hand it over. If only it were so easy. When nothing materialized, she chose the only answer that sounded logical. “I just broke my engagement a month ago. You can’t expect—” “This isn’t about him, and you know it.” An ache started behind her eyes. “I don’t know what it is.” “Then there’s nothing to stop us, is there? Unless you don’t feel anything for me . . .” Self-doubt crept into his tone. She let the sentence hang, unable to deny it. She prayed somehow he wouldn’t remember her response to the kiss or at least not remember it the way she did. She took three cleansing breaths. Four. The briny air failed to calm her. “No, it’s there, isn’t it.” It wasn’t even a question. There was no point denying it. “All right, I won’t deny an attraction. But that’s all, that’s all there can be.” “Why?” She threw her hands up. “I’m leaving soon, moving hundreds of miles away, I’ve just inherited three kids, my engagement’s broken, my future’s uncertain . . .” Surely there was more, but her mind ran out of steam. “Those are all things people work around.” He took a step toward her, then another. “There’s something else.” A memory flashed in her mind. Her mother, in manic mode coming toward her, slowly, just like this. She’d been no more than nine years old, had been wrapped in her mom’s arms only an hour earlier, but an hour made all the difference. Now her mom’s face was red and mottled, and she was yelling. Meridith had covered her ears with her hands. Jake’s movement snagged her attention. He was getting close. She stepped back. 974 . . . 948 . . . 922 . . . “Why are you running?” She knew he wasn’t talking about the step. It hadn’t put nearly enough distance between them. He was there, right in front of her. 896 . . . 8 . . . “Meridith.” He took her by the shoulders. The motion drew her eyes to his, and she knew it with certainty: she was too far gone. As far gone as he, maybe more. What had she done? How was she going to escape with her heart intact? There weren’t enough calming breaths to fix this. She could count backward from a million and still be where she was now. Hopelessly in love with the man who made her feel too many things. “You’re afraid.

How could you do that?” I ask. My heart is thumping like crazy, and I can barely catch my breath. “What did you do?” my mother asks. Dad shrugs and washes his hands at the sink. He ignores me completely. Mom raises her brow at me in question. “He called Pete a thug, and then he told me I have to go on a date with Chase just because his father called and snapped his fingers.” I snap mine for good measure. Mom’s inquisitive grin turns into a scowl. “What?” she asks. She grabs my father’s shoulder and turns him to face her. “You of all people called Pete a thug?” “To his face!” I shout. “Then Pete left. And I don’t even know what he’s thinking.” “I know what he’s thinking,” Dad murmurs. Mom frowns. “He’s thinking you don’t like him!” Dad makes a noncommittal hum. That’s it? A hum? Mom’s face softens. She can read Dad like a book. I just wish I could. “What?” I ask. I look back and forth between them. “Your dad is afraid Pete’s trying to get in your pants,” Mom says. She lifts her brow at Dad. Dad just glares at her. He won’t even look at me. I throw up my hands. “That’s just it!” I cry. “He’s not trying to get in my pants. He won’t even kiss me!” “Oh,” Mom breathes. Dad murmurs something, and Mom rubs his shoulder, her eyes soft as she looks at him. “What?” I ask again. “Your dad’s afraid you’ll get your heart broken,” she says quietly. She looks sympathetically toward my dad. I take a deep breath and steel myself. “Most girls get to have their hearts broken when they’re eighteen or so. Maybe sixteen or whenever they find their first boyfriend.” I jab a finger toward my chest. “I’ve never even had a boyfriend, Dad,” I say. My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them back. How messed up is this? “I like Pete, and he’s someone you can like, too. So, what’s the problem? We haven’t even been on a date!” “I saw him watching you at the pool.” Dad heaves a sigh. “He looks at you like I look at your mother.” He tips her chin up so that her eyes meet his. “I saw her and I knew she was completely out of my league, but I wanted her more than I ever wanted anything.” He looks at me. “And that’s how Pete looks at you. That’s what scares me, Reagan. Not that he’s a thug or that he’s poor or that he’s been in prison. He looks at you like he never wants to stop looking at you. I’d probably like him more if he was just trying to get in your pants, because that’s something you can get over. But a man loving you, that’s completely different. You’re not ready for it.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re just not.” He may as well have stuck a knife in my chest. “How do you know what I’m ready for?” I ask. “I saw what that asshole did to you, Reagan,” he says. He slams his fist down on the kitchen counter, making the dishes jump. And me, too. “I saw you walking around here, jumping at shadows, wrapping yourself in a protective bubble so no one else could hurt you. You learned how to protect your body, but no one ever taught you to protect your heart.” He pounds his fist against his chest. “You’re unprepared for what Pete wants. Completely unprepared.” “What do you want me to do?” I ask. I can barely hear myself, but Dad hears me. “Stop it before it’s too late,” he spits out. “Just stop it.” “Okay,” I breathe. “You win.

knew he’d spoken the truth. It would be okay because Mr. Perfect would make it okay. The guy was responsible, dependable, a stand-up fellow. Hadn’t she rubbed it in, all the differences between Greg and Brody? Her boyfriend wouldn’t let her down. Guys like Greg Bannister had invented the phrase “do the right thing” just for this particular situation. In no time at all Brody’s office mom would be installed in whatever passed for suburban splendor in Alaska—a cozy split-level igloo perhaps, with a two-dogsled garage and a plastic flamingo out front. On the other side of the world, practically. Reflexively Brody pulled her closer. “I take it you haven’t done a pregnancy test yet.” She shook her head. “I want to wait until... well, I just want to wait.” “No more waiting. We’ll pick up one of those drugstore kits.” He pulled her up off the bench. “No.” “What do you mean, no? You’ve gotta find out.” “I will,” she said, “when I’m ready.” “Well, I’m ready now. Is there a pharmacy in this place?” He shooed away her hands when she tried to lift a bag, and grabbed the handles of all seven himself. They were awkward to carry and much too heavy for a mother-to-be, filled with a wrought-iron magazine rack, black marble bookends, and other household furnishings that reflected the taste of the

Instantly, I noticed that our conversation was easy, flirtatious and exciting. It didn’t take very long for us to get to know each other. To start with, I was a little taken aback with both of them being so friendly and talkative. As we talked, I really didn’t know what to call Rita and I stammered some as I attempted to navigate around the social aspects of my dilemma. I didn’t know her last name and “Mrs. Whatjamacallit” didn’t seem appropriate, so I continued using her first name. What seemed awkward to me at first, soon became and sounded acceptable. I also noticed that Connie alternated between calling her mother “Mom” and “Rita.” At first this was strange, but soon I kind of understood the unique relationship between them. For me it seemed different, however I tend to adapt easily and now I was becoming acquainted with a girl who called her mother by her first name. The house was without central heating, but it did have a big cast iron Franklin stove in the living room. Rita looked over to me and asked if I would light the fire. “Guess so,” I replied. I soon found out that lighting the fire encompassed getting and splitting the firewood, and then tending to it. Connie showed me to the front porch where there was a big pile of cordwood, just dumped in one heap. I also noticed that the wind was picking up and was blowing the white stuff onto the porch and covering the woodpile. “Might be a good idea to bring in enough wood to last the night,” I thought aloud. This was going to become a full time job! With Connie’s able help I got a roaring fire going. Rita made sandwiches and poured us all some Coca-Cola, which she topped off with some Canadian Whiskey. Turning the damper down on the fire, I thought to myself that the Franklin stove would never heat this size house, besides the wind was coming in through the cracks around the windows and doors. I knew that the house didn’t have much insulation by how cold the walls were. The windows were single pane, which also didn’t help much, but at least it was shelter. When I mentioned this, Rita said, “Never mind, we’ll all be able to stay warm in bed.” By this time, Connie and I were clowning around and Rita reminded us that she was also there. “I may be momma but I’m not about to freeze, while you kids have all the fun! Besides we only have one bed.” Suddenly the whole scene came into focus. The sandwiches on the kitchen table wouldn’t be our only food. The sandwiches we would have that night would just be the beginning of a feast.

The year was 1967. The nation lived with this constant low-level anxiety about nuclear war. Some researchers had decided to study how people would actually respond during a nuclear attack. Right there in downtown Chicago, they’d built a nuclear fallout shelter and asked for volunteers. For some reason Carter’s mother had thought it a good idea to raise her hand, and so without Carter’s fully understanding why, he and his parents and his five siblings were taken to the shelter. “There’s barely enough room for four hundred people,” he recalled. “There’s concrete floors with no pillows or blankets. To eat, you had crackers, plus water that tasted like bleach. There’s one light that’s powered by a bike, so someone has to ride the bike to keep the light on. But the bike also can power a fan, so you had to choose between the light and the fan. It’s hot as hell.” The only creature comfort allowed was cigarettes. So the whole place filled with smoke. There Carter and his family remained for three days. The researchers stepped around them, taking notes. “They wanted to watch how people would behave,” said Carter. “So I got to watch, too.” What he realized, as he watched, was that there was no way a nuclear war would be anything like that. “My mom would be at home, and we’d be at school, and my dad would be at work,” he said. “We’d all be separated. We wouldn’t know how to get to the shelter, and that’s not where we’d go anyway.” His mind unspooled a different scenario that left him with a conviction that nuclear fallout shelters were probably a dumb idea. “Going through that experience forever changed my vision of these events.

Time passed differently for Mom. She lived inside her own schedule, forgetting the existence of anyone not standing directly in front of her. But when you did cross her field of vision she latched on hard, flipping from absent to overbearing in a second. There was no third mode. Eva had long since learned to avoid speaking to her mother on the phone. Both she and Anja had generally learned to use her father as the go-between, but Anja still gave in, in moments of weakness, reaching out to make sure her mother was still alive.

I Googled you,” I say, looking away. “I stopped stalking Boyfriend, and I ended up stalking you. When you mentioned your wife, I already knew all about her. And your mother.” I pause, especially mortified by this last part. “I read that long interview with your mom.” I get ready for . . . I don’t know what. Something bad to happen. A tornado to enter the room and alter our connection in some intangible but irreparable way. I wait for everything to feel distant, different, changed between us. But instead, the opposite happens. It feels as though the storm came in, passed through the room, and left not ruins but a clearing in its wake. I feel lighter, relieved of a burden. Sharing difficult truths might come with a cost—the need to face them—but there’s also a reward: freedom. The truth releases us from shame.

I wish my mother was a hugger. A hug right now would help a lot. A hug would fill me up, make me feel as if I exist and maybe even douse the anger. Instead, I get a shoulder squeeze as my mom heads back to her room. A shoulder squeeze can in no way be compared to a hug. They’re like the difference between a size twenty-four and a size two. The squeeze is so inadequate, and the hug just the right thing. I want perfect and I get insufficient.

A CHILD LIKE NO OTHER A couple years ago I met author and speaker Leticia Velasquez, who wrote A Special Mother is Born, which includes her own story about raising a child with Down Syndrome. I was deeply struck by the portion where she talks about how, as her daughter Christina was sleeping in her arms, she thought about Jesus’ mom mothering Him; she then meditated on the commonalities between Jesus and children with special needs. This was her inspiration: Mary bore a Child like no other; A child who did not conform to society’s expectations; He was different from the others; He gazed upon Heaven when the rest could only see clouds. He reminded them of their failings, their lack of charity, their shallowness, their impatience, and their rush to judgment. His government tried to kill Him, and eventually succeeded. He had to endure constant misunderstanding of what He was trying to communicate, and bore the frustration of those who misunderstood Him. He was mocked and rejected, and at times, it seemed only His mother still stood by Him. She felt the loneliness of seeing her Son rejected because He was different, yet she bore the pain patiently because she knew that it was for us, the ‘least of these’ that He suffered and died.40

Nina looked at her. 'Everyone describes him so differently.' She paused, unsure. 'He was one guy, but there's no consensus about what he was like. For Peter's mom, he was a blowhard who drank too much; for Millie, he was the kindest man in the world who made endless time for her.' Eliza shrugged. 'People change. There's forty years between the William that Peter's mom knew and the William that Millie knew. Parents get stuck in the amber of childhood, right? Whenever my parents visit, I feel myself becoming a cranky fourteen-year-old. I saw William through the lens of being his wife; I look at Millie only as her mother... You see what I mean?' 'Sure. So I'll never see my dad properly, only through the filter of other people's opinions.' 'Or maybe it'll average out and you'll be the only one who sees the real him.' Nina laughed. 'Maybe there is no real thing for anyone. Maybe all of us change depending on where we are and who we're with.' 'And that's why you like to be alone.' Eliza looked at her and smiled. 'How do you mean?' 'Because you prefer who you are when you're alone.' Nina shrugged. 'It takes a lot of energy to be with other people. It's easier to be myself when there's no one else there.' 'Some people take energy; some people give energy... Occasionally, you get lucky and find someone whose energy balances your own and brings you into neutral.' She paused. 'My God, I've been in Malibu too long. I said that completely without irony.' Nina laughed. 'It was really convincing. I think I even heard a tiny temple bell ringing somewhere...' Eliza made a face at herself. 'Your dad used to say being with me was as good as being alone.' Eliza laughed. 'I think he meant it as a compliment.' The two women looked at each other. 'I think we're overthinking this,' said Eliza. 'More wine?