Typical Mom Quotes

Your typical suburban mom worries all the time, but she worries about the wrong things

You should be more paranoid than you are. Your typical suburban mom worries all the time, but she worries about the wrong things. Because she doesn’t worry about me.

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was. But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating on my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case- somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Rachel, my beautiful wife, the mother of my chidren and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with Darcy as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information. "You know, Rachel, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old." I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So Darcy was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty. The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Darcy and I started watching ths show Thirty Something together. It wasn't our favorite- we preferred cheerful sit-coms like Who's the Boss? and Growing Pains- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirty Something was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surealy last forever. Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time..

For no Reason?" "For every reason". Rie emptied her sake cup. "Let's start with how she viewed my dad. He was your typical king of the hill. We couldn't say anything growing up. I was a kid, and a girl on top of that, so he never saw me as a real person. I never even heard the guy call my mother by name. It was always Hey you. We were constantly on red alert because my dad would beat the shit out of us or break things for no reason. Of course, outside the home, he was a pillar of the community. He ran the neighborhood council, and all that. My mom was my mom, always laughing it off, running the bath for him, cleaning up after him, feeding him. She looked after both of his parents all the way to the end, too. There was no inheritance, either. Yeah, my mom was free labor - free labor with a pussy.

More profoundly, Nihilist "simplification" may be seen in the universal prestige today accorded the lowest order of knowledge, the scientific, as well as the simplistic ideas of men like Marx, Freud, and Darwin, which underlie virtually the whole of contemporary thought and life. We say "life," for it is important to see that the Nihilist history of our century has not been something imposed from without or above, or at least has not been predominantly this; it has rather presupposed, and drawn its nourishment from, a Nihilist soil that has long been preparing in the hearts of the people. It is precisely from the Nihilism of the commonplace, from the everyday Nihilism revealed in the life and thought and aspiration of the people, that all the terrible events of our century have sprung. The world-view of Hitler is very instructive in this regard, for in him the most extreme and monstrous Nihilism rested upon the foundation of a quite unexceptional and even typical Realism. He shared the common faith in "science," "progress," and "enlightenment" (though not, of course, in "democracy"), together with a practical materialism that scorned all theology, metaphysics, and any thought or action concerned with any other world than the "here and now," priding himself on the fact that he had "the gift of reducing all problems to their simplest foundations." He had a crude worship of efficiency and utility that freely tolerated "birth control", laughed at the institution of marriage as a mere legalization of a sexual impulse that should be "free", welcomed sterilization of the unfit, despised "unproductive elements" such as monks, saw nothing in the cremation of the dead but a "practical" question and did not even hesitate to put the ashes, or the skin and fat, of the dead to "productive use." He possessed the quasi-anarchist distrust of sacred and venerable institutions, in particular the Church with its "superstitions" and all its "outmoded" laws and ceremonies. He had a naive trust in the "natural mom, the "healthy animal" who scorns the Christian virtues--virginity in particular--that impede the "natural functioning" of the body. He took a simple-minded delight in modern conveniences and machines, and especially in the automobile and the sense of speed and "freedom" it affords. There is very little of this crude Weltanschauung that is not shared, to some degree, by the multitudes today, especially among the young, who feel themselves "enlightened" and "liberated," very little that is not typically "modern.

A FATHER’S GREATEST FEAR is usually that he won’t be able to provide for his family. A mom’s greatest fear is typically that something will happen to one of her children. Fear is a funny thing. It sometimes provides healthy caution, but more times than not it seems to produce undue stress and anxiety regarding things over which we have little to no control.

Chris loved to look at every type of plant, animal, and bug he hadn’t seen before on the trail and point out those he did recognize. He enjoyed walking along small streams, listening to the water as it traveled, and searching for eddies where we could watch the minnows scurry amongst the rocks. On one Shenandoah trip, while we were resting at a waterfall, eating our chocolate-covered granola bars and watching the water pummel the rocks below, he said, “See, Carine ? That’s the purity of nature. It may be harsh in its honesty, but it never lies to you”. Chris seemed to be most comfortable outdoors, and the farther away from the typical surroundings and pace of our everyday lives the better. While it was unusual for a solid week to pass without my parents having an argument that sent them into a negative tailspin of destruction and despair, they never got into a fight of any consequence when we were on an extended family hike or camping trip. It seemed like everything became centered and peaceful when there was no choice but to make nature the focus. Our parents’ attention went to watching for blaze marks on trees ; staying on the correct trail ; doling out bug spray, granola bars, sandwiches, and candy bars at proper intervals ; and finding the best place to pitch the tent before nightfall. They taught us how to properly lace up our hiking boots and wear the righ socks to keep our feet healthy and reliable. They showed us which leaves were safe to use as toilet paper and which would surely make us miserable downtrail. We learned how to purify water for our canteens if we hadn’t found a safe spring and to be smart about conserving what clean water we had left. At night we would collect rocks to make a fire ring, dry wood to burn, and long twigs for roasting marshmallows for the s’more fixings Mom always carried in her pack. Dad would sing silly, non-sensical songs that made us laugh and tell us about the stars.

What's wrong with me? I lose my footing, in here.' He touched his head. 'When a neuro-typical looses their footing, they yell or escape to the TV, or maybe the doctor throws them on depression meds. But when I slip, I fall all the way through. I feel the ground give way and I'm gone. It's a crack -- a crack in what's real, and beneath there I'm stuck. Then, I guess I become someone else. Mom says I still know my name, but I walk a different world. The shrink calls it DID -- Dissociative Identity Disorder -- with a little added autism to spice up my other personality. I suppose he's right, but only I know how it feels to slip through the cracks. Then the monster shows up.

How does he do it? Bob in Charge of All Three Kids is an entirely different show than Sarah in Charge of All Three Kids. With Bob, they’re happily willing to be independent little taskmasters, content to leave him in peace until he comes to them with an offer of a new activity. With me, I have all the magnetism of a favorite rock star without the bodyguards. They’re on me. A typical example: Linus is under my feet, whining, begging to be picked up, while Lucy hollers, “Mom, I need help!” from another room, while Charlie asks me forty-seven hundred relentless questions about what happens to trash.

Johnnie Walker is my celebratory drink,” I explained. “But when I’m out, I typically only drink whiskey. My dad only drank whiskey. His preference was Jack Daniels. And long before I was ever able to drink, I overheard my dad say that whiskey was like my mom. Rich, bold, sweet, fiery, full-bodied and multilayered.

few months back. It’s been a longer turnaround than usual—typically he’s kicked out once a week or so. And with good reason. Mom says he doesn’t help the family enough, he’s always late from work, he’s probably cheating, he’s not interested in his children, he’s an absent father, etc. The fact that he’s gotten by this long without being

The Mistress of the Manor (Hoyt calls her MOM) has no idea he shoots the skunks and raccoons he traps on her property. She has asked him please to release the creatures in some other vicinity, a "humane" act that only makes them somebody's else's problem. Typical: MOM sees nothing contradictory in driving twenty miles in a gas-guzzling atmosphere-choking SUV to buy organic vegetables.

SOCIAL/GENERAL ICEBREAKERS 1. What do you think of the movie/restaurant/party? 2. Tell me about the best vacation you’ve ever taken. 3. What’s your favorite thing to do on a rainy day? 4. If you could replay any moment in your life, what would it be? 5. What one thing would you really like to own? Why? 6. Tell me about one of your favorite relatives. 7. What was it like in the town where you grew up? 8. What would you like to come back as in your next life? 9. Tell me about your kids. 10. What do you think is the perfect age? Why? 11. What is a typical day like for you? 12. Of all the places you’ve lived, tell me about the one you like the best. 13. What’s your favorite holiday? What do you enjoy about it? 14. What are some of your family traditions that you particularly enjoy? 15. Tell me about the first car you ever bought. 16. How has the Internet affected your life? 17. Who were your idols as a kid? Have they changed? 18. Describe a memorable teacher you had. 19. Tell me about a movie/book you’ve seen or read more than once. 20. What’s your favorite restaurant? Why? 21. Tell me why you were named ______. What is the origin of your last name? 22. Tell me about a place you’ve visited that you hope never to return to. get over your mom’s good intentions. 23. What’s the best surprise you’ve ever received? 24. What’s the neatest surprise you’ve ever planned and pulled off for someone else? 25. Skiing here is always challenging. What are some of your favorite places to ski? 26. Who would star as you in a movie about your life? Why that person? 27. Who is the most famous person you’ve met? 28. Tell me about some of your New Year’s resolutions. 29. What’s the most antiestablishment thing you’ve ever done? 30. Describe a costume that you wore to a party. 31. Tell me about a political position you’d like to hold. 32. What song reminds you of an incident in your life? 33. What’s the most memorable meal you’ve eaten? 34. What’s the most unforgettable coincidence you’ve experienced or heard about? 35. How are you able to tell if that melon is ripe? 36. What motion picture star would you like to interview? Why? 37. Tell me about your family. 38. What aroma brings forth a special memory? 39. Describe the scariest person you ever met. 40. What’s your favorite thing to do alone? 41. Tell me about a childhood friend who used to get you in trouble. 42. Tell me about a time when you had too much to eat or drink. 43. Describe your first away-from-home living quarters or experience. 44. Tell me about a time that you lost a job. 45. Share a memory of one of your grandparents. 46. Describe an embarrassing moment you’ve had. 47. Tell me something most people would never guess about you. 48. What would you do if you won a million dollars? 49. Describe your ideal weather and why. 50. How did you learn to ski/hang drywall/play piano?

Mrs. Ishida muttered, “Typical teenagers.” “Think they can take on the world,” Mr. Ishida agreed. “We did.” Tristan’s grandparents high fived. “And we won.” “You blew up the entire—” “Mom, let it go.” Logan shuffled his feet. Blake’s uncle laughed. “She’s just still mad about—” He caught the pint-sized brunette’s scathing look, “—the thing that I agreed to never talk about. Ever.” A & E Kirk (2014-05-26). Drop Dead Demons: The Divinicus Nex Chronicles: Book 2 (Divinicus Nex Chronicles series) (p. 508). A&E Kirk. Kindle Edition.

What the hell is all this I read in the papers?" "Narrow it down for me," Alan suggested. "I suppose it might have been a misprint," Daniel considered, frowning at the tip of his cigar before he tapped it in the ashtray he kept secreted in the bottom drawer of his desk. "I think I know my own flesh and blood well enough." "Narrow it just a bit further," Alan requested, though he'd already gotten the drift.It was simply too good to end it too soon. "When I read that my own son-my heir, as things are-is spending time fraternizing with a Campbell, I know it's a simple matter of misspelling. What's the girl's name?" Along with a surge of affection, Alan felt a tug of pure and simple mischief. "Which girl is that?" "Dammit,boy! The girl you're seeing who looks like a pixie.Fetching young thing from the picture I saw.Good bones; holds herself well." "Shelby," Alan said, then waited a beat. "Shelby Campbell." Dead silence.Leaning back in his chair, Alan wondered how long it would be before his father remembered to take a breath. It was a pity, he mused, a real pity that he couldn't see the old pirate's face. "Campbell!" The word erupted. "A thieving, murdering Campbell!" "Yes,she's fond of MacGregor's as well." "No son of mine gives the time of day to one of the clan Campbell!" Daniel bellowed. "I'll take a strap to you, Alan Duncan MacGregor!" The threat was as empty now as it had been when Alan had been eight, but delivered in the same full-pitched roar. "I'll wear the hide off you." "You'll have the chance to try this weekend when you meet Shelby." "A Campbell in my house! Hah!" "A Campbell in your house," Alan repeated mildly. "And a Campbell in your family before the end of the year if I have my way." "You-" Emotions warred in him. A Campbell versus his firmest aspiration: to see each of his children married and settled, and himself laden with grandchildren. "You're thinking of marriage to a Campbell?" "I've already asked her.She won't have me...yet," he added. "Won't have you!" Paternal pride dominated all else. "What kind of a nitwit is she? Typical Campbell," he muttered. "Mindless pagans." Daniel suspected they'd had some sorcerers sprinkled among them. "Probably bewitched the boy," he mumbled, scowling into space. "Always had good sense before this.Aye, you bring your Campbell to me," he ordered roundly. "I'll get to the bottom of it." Alan smothered a laugh, forgetting the poor mood that had plagued him only minutes earlier. "I'll ask her." "Ask? Hah! You bring the girl, that daughter of a Campbell, here." Picturing Shelby, Alan decided he wouldn't iss the meeting for two-thirds the popular vote. "I'll see you Friday, Dad.Give Mom my love." "Friday," Daniel muttered, puffing avidly on his cigar. "Aye,aye, Friday." As he hung up Alan could all but see his father rubbing his huge hands togther in anticipation. It should be an interesting weekened.

Looks like they might cancel school on Monday. Woot! Information like this coming from Lucy is generally pretty reliable, since she happens to live right next door to Mrs. Crawford, the principal of Magnolia Branch High. Yay, I can sit home and watch more Weather Channel! I text back. This is an intervention--step away from the TV! NOW! I laugh aloud at that. It’s such a typical Lucy-like thing to say. My mom’s worried about you. Wants you to pack up and come over here. Can’t. But Ryder’s coming over if the storm gets bad. Lucy’s next text is just a line of googly eyes. Not funny, I type, even though it kind of us. You two can plan your wedding menu. Choose your linens. Stuff like that, she texts, followed by a smiley face. I gaze at my phone with a frown. Also not funny.

My best friend, Keri Downey, lived a block away. Her house was a much livelier version of mine. Keri and I met the first day of kindergarten. I was dressed in a cowgirl outfit, which says more about my mother’s wonderful acceptance of my weirdness and less about my fashion choices at that time. Remember, this was still the 1970s, a time when my teachers wore leotards and corduroys and kissed their boyfriends in front of us. My mother was at home, but Keri’s mom, Ginny, worked. Keri was a typical latchkey kid, and her house had that exciting Lord of the Flies feeling of being run by children. Keri had a list of chores and suffered consequences if she didn’t do them. I came from a home where my mother would gently suggest that maybe I could pick up my room if I had the chance.

I’M EATING DINNER AT MY apartment when my phone rings. It’s Miranda. Typically I wouldn’t expect a call from her these days. We’ve drifted apart. It’s a sad reality for me in my late twenties. At the beginning of the decade, the people I was close to seemed like friends for life, people I could never imagine not seeing every day. But life happens. Love happens. Loss happens. Change and growth happen at different paces for different people, and sometimes the paces just don’t line up. It’s devastating if I think too much about it, so I usually don’t.

Dopey, in out of his depth, began to look desperate. "Debbie Mancuso," he yelled, "and I are not having sex!" I saw my mom and Andy exchange a quick, bewildered glance. "I should certainly hope not," Doc, Dopey's little brother, said as he breezed past us. "But if you are, Brad, I hope you're using condoms. While a good-quality latex condom has a failure rate of about two percent when used as directed, typically the failure rate averages closer to twelve percent. That makes them only about eighty-five percent effective against preventing pregnancy. If used with a spermicide, the effectiveness improves dramatically. And condoms are our best defense - though not as good, of course, as abstention - against some STDs, including HIV." Everyone in the kitchen - my mother, Andy, Dopey, Sleepy, and I - stared at Doc, who is, as I think I mentioned before, twelve. "You," I finally said, "have way too much time on your hands." Doc shrugged. "It helps to be informed. While I myself am not sexually active at the current time, I hope to become so in the near future." He nodded toward the stove. "Dad, your chimichangas, or whatever they are, are on fire." While Andy jumped to put out his cheese fire, my mother stood there, apparently, for once in her life, at a loss for words.

Typical things you will see on a to-do list: “Mom” “Bank” “Doctor” “Baby-sitter” “VP Marketing” etc. Looking at these often creates more stress than relief, because, though it is a valuable trigger for something that you’ve committed to do or decide something about, it still calls out psychologically, “Decide about me!” And if you do not have the energy or focus at the moment to think and decide, it will simply remind you that you are overwhelmed. Stuff

I always thought of myself as a fairly typical modern American kid—tech-savvy, a bit of a smart-ass, and thoroughly multicultural. Take one look at my olive complexion. That’s the future face of America, not the goofy grin of Beaver Cleaver or Richie Cunningham. I was born here, though my mom and dad were not.

His mom had elfish features with, typically, an elfish look of mischief and confidence about them—except when she was worried about her son.

Don’t laugh though.” “What do you mean?” said Emma. Biff didn’t say anything. He reached into his inventory and pulled out his bed and tossed it on the floor. I’m sorry, but I had to laugh. Emma laughed too. The bed had a blanket with a chicken face on it. His pillow case had the picture of a bunny rabbit on it. “Stop laughing! My mom got me the blanket and the pillowcase when I was little. Hurrr, I just never got around to replacing them.” I was still laughing and said, “No worries, Bro. Looks comfortable.” Emma, who had stopped laughing, yawned. It was contagious. Biff and I both yawned. “Okay, guys, I’m going to sleep. Good night,” said Emma. Biff and I both wished her good night and we each got into our beds and went to sleep. * * * I suppose it will come as no surprise to you that I was visited in my dreams that evening. One of the visitors I had almost expected. But the other…. The visitor I was more or less expecting to show up was, of course, the Rainbow Creeper. It appeared without any attempt to conceal itself in a mysterious form or behind a cloud of dream smoke. You know, the typical weird dream-type stuff. It spoke with the strange lilting voice that had been created when Claire had been joined to it. “Jimmy. I understand that you have rescued Emma from the witch.” “Yes, RC, I did. If Claire still has any independent memory, I hope she’s relieved.” There was a pause for a moment and then the Creeper said, “Yes, she is.” There was another brief pause and then the Rainbow Creeper changed the subject. “Have you had any luck locating Entity 303’s piece in Baby Zeke’s dimension?” I shook my head. “No, but this dimension’s Ender King, Herobrine, and Notch are working on ways to find it. We are going to establish a search party tomorrow using volunteers. It may take a while, but we will leave no stone unturned.” “Excellent,” said the Rainbow Creeper. “I’m sure Entity 303 will not be able to escape your reconnaissance.” “How are things going in my native dimension?” “They are still searching as well. No news.” The Rainbow Creeper was beginning to fade from my dream when I remembered. “Creeper? Wait a minute. Something else happened.” The Creeper’s form solidified again and it looked at me, its expressionless

Ortega 12th April, 2014 I am writing this as fast as I can. The doors on the Phaedra don’t lock, and Mom could walk in any moment. I have no privacy. I am the only twelve-year-old girl I know who has to share a room with her mom. I have pointed out how unfair it is, the way the jellyfish equipment takes up the whole front of the boat, but Mom won’t listen. Typical – the jellyfish get their own room and I don’t. I’m not trying to make excuses for my handwriting or anything, but if it is all scrawly that’s because my arm’s so trembly I can hardly hold the pen. I think it’s from gripping on to the tractor for so long. The entire way home I had to cling to the wheel arch, sitting up there behind Annie like a parrot perched on a pirate’s shoulder. The way she drove along those rutted jungle tracks, I was petrified I was going to lose hold and fall beneath the wheels. By the time we reached the bay and I could see the Phaedra, my body had been shaken up like a can of fizzy drink. There was no sign of Mom as the tractor lumbered over the dunes and down the beach towards the sea. I was kind of relieved, to tell the truth. The whole time at Annie’s house I had been desperate to get back to the boat, but now that I was home I felt sick at the thought of facing Mom. She would be furious with me. I had been gone for two whole days…

So, you put in a no-show for the turkey,” Sean said. “What’s up with that? You’re stateside, you’re not that far away….” “I have things to do here, Sean,” he said. “And I explained to Mother—I can’t leave Art and I can’t take him on a trip.” “So I heard. And that’s your only reason?” “What else?” “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, as if he did know what else. “Well then, you’ll be real happy to hear this—I’m bringing Mother to Virgin River for Thanksgiving.” Luke was dead silent for a moment. “What!” Luke nearly shouted into the phone. “Why the hell would you do that?” “Because you won’t come to Phoenix. And she’d like to see this property you’re working on. And the helper. And the girl.” “You aren’t doing this to me,” Luke said in a threatening tone. “Tell me you aren’t doing this to me!” “Yeah, since you can’t make it to Mom’s, we’re coming to you. I thought that would make you sooo happy,” he added with a chuckle in his voice. “Oh God,” he said. “I don’t have room for you. There’s not a hotel in town.” “You lying sack of shit. You have room. You have two extra bedrooms and six cabins you’ve been working on for three months. But if it turns out you’re telling the truth, there’s a motel in Fortuna that has some room. As long as Mom has the good bed in the house, clean sheets and no rats, everything will be fine.” “Good. You come,” Luke said. “And then I’m going to kill you.” “What’s the matter? You don’t want Mom to meet the girl? The helper?” “I’m going to tear your limbs off before you die!” But Sean laughed. “Mom and I will be there Tuesday afternoon. Buy a big turkey, huh?” Luke was paralyzed for a moment. Silent and brooding. He had lived a pretty wild life, excepting that couple of years with Felicia, when he’d been temporarily domesticated. He’d flown helicopters in combat and played it loose with the ladies, taking whatever was consensually offered. His bachelorhood was on the adventurous side. His brothers were exactly like him; maybe like their father before them, who hadn’t married until the age of thirty-two. Not exactly ancient, but for the generation before theirs, a little mature to begin a family of five sons. They were frisky Irish males. They all had taken on a lot: dared much, had no regrets, moved fast. But one thing none of them had ever done was have a woman who was not a wife in bed with them under the same roof with their mother. “I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve been to war four times,” he said to himself, pacing in his small living room, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “This is my house and she is a guest. She can disapprove all she wants, work her rosary until she has blisters on her hands, but this is not up to her.” Okay, then she’ll tell everything, was his next thought. Every little thing about me from the time I was five, every young lady she’d had high hopes for, every indiscretion, my night in jail, my very naked fling with the high-school vice-principal’s daughter…. Everything from speeding tickets to romances. Because that’s the way the typical dysfunctional Irish family worked—they bartered in secrets. He could either behave the way his mother expected, which she considered proper and gentlemanly and he considered tight-assed and useless, or he could throw caution to the wind, do things his way, and explain all his mother’s stories to Shelby later.

knew. And his ex had seemed so kind on those first few dates, so infatuated with his Navy uniform, so enthusiastic in tearing up his bed. His ex-wife, a former stripper named Trish Bardoe, had married on the rebound a fellow by the name of Eddie Stipowicz, an unemployed engineer with a drinking problem. Lee thought she was heading for disaster and had tried to get custody of Renee on the grounds that her mom and stepfather could not provide for her. Well, about that time, Eddie, a sneaky runt Lee despised, invented, mostly by accident, some microchip piece of crap that had made him a gazillionaire. Lee’s custody battle had lost its juice after that. To add insult to injury, there had been stories on Eddie in the Wall Street Journal, Time, Newsweek and a number of other publications. He was famous. Their house had even been featured in Architectural Digest. Lee had gotten that issue of the Digest. Trish’s new home was grossly huge, mostly crimson red or eggplant so dark it made Lee think of the inside of a coffin. The windows were cathedral-size, the furniture large enough to become lost in and there were enough wood moldings, paneling and staircases to heat a typical midwestern town for an entire year. There were also stone fountains sculpted

Despite the differences in their ages, I still thought of them as adventurous girls. It never occurred to me that they might be related, that is until I heard Connie refer to Rita as “Mom”?? Now at least I knew their names, but the relationship confused me.… They acted more like friends and equals, than mother and daughter. Didn’t I detect flirtation in Connie’s comments, and didn’t Rita give me the eye? As we walked through this typical small town market, they picked up many more items, “just in case we get snowed in.” I expressed my regret for not being able to help in defraying the ever-increasing cost of the groceries, but it didn’t seem to bother them. “We picked you up and it’s our treat,” Rita explained. “Come on, let’s get going before we get stuck here,” Connie said, with a sound of urgency, to her mother who was still looking around. Picking up two economy-sized bags of potato chips along with some pretzels didn’t impress me as being staples, but to be fair, she did also pick up bacon, eggs, English muffins and a container of milk. Getting back into the car, we turned north again, past where they first picked me up, and then left onto Mountain Street. I knew from the many times that I had come through Camden that Mount Battie was back up here somewhere, but after a short distance of about a mile or so, we turned left again and pulled into the driveway of a big old farmhouse connected to a barn, which looked very much like many other houses in Maine. By this time the snow was coming down in big wet flakes, accumulating fast. It wouldn’t take long before the roads would become totally impassable. I knew that this could become a worse mess than I had anticipated, especially on the back roads. The coastal towns in Maine don’t usually get as cold as the towns in the interior, thus allowing the air to hold more moisture. In turn, they are apt to get more big wet snowflakes that accumulate faster. However, the salt air also melts the snow more rapidly. I seldom had to worry about the weather, but this time I was lucky to have been picked up by these “Oh So Fine Ladies” and was glad that I decided to accept their offer to stay with them.

What Children Need to Know Although children at different ages are able to grasp varying levels of what divorce means, it’s best to keep all conversations brief, direct, and factual. Children don’t need to hear what caused the breakup or a recitation of all your partner’s character flaws. There may be a later time to be more transparent about the reasons for the divorce, but this conversation is not the place. The purpose of this first conversation is to inform them that the divorce is happening, let them know how much you care for them, make them feel safe, and discuss any details you have sorted out about living and visitation arrangements. These are shatteringly difficult conversations, and your first reaction is to want to take your child’s pain away, but pat answers or reassurances like “it will be okay” or “things will be fine” aren’t helpful. Everyone knows that things are going to be different, and these types of responses can make children feel like their anxieties are being dismissed. The goal here should be to give age-appropriate information and reassurances. Younger children typically require more discussion around security, that mom and dad both love them and that they are not to blame in any way. Older children may be more concerned about living arrangements and how their social life will be impacted. They may also have been expecting it, and in cases where marital conflict was high, they may even find it a relief. Primary

It’s Jenny- my daddy’s let her in. I walk into my room undressed, holding my wet towel in my right hand. Jenny looked at me and said- ‘I see we are going for the earthy look today; god you could have shaved a little.’ Jenny is lying bullied down on my bed, looking through my phone, with her legs up in the air, letting one fall and bounce on the Serta every once in a while. She looked up at me, she got that pissed-off look, eyebrows bent, I knew she saw I forwarded the message. I pay it off, acting like I was happy to see her, and in a way, I was, I would never want to see one of my girlfriends die- or be dead. Oh, Jenny- She looks so typical, so acquainted with everyone, yet on the inside is falling apart. Jenny is Bipolar and has Social Anxiety Disorder mixed with Bulimia, like every time she feels not wanted by a boy or feel overweight or something is not going her way, she has a hard time keeping her food down, she has even up-cucked on me and the girls at lunch, not meaning too. I am far from being a psychologist, yet those are my diagnosis, yet everyone just seems to ignore her faults. I know she saw the text because she ran down the hall to throw up, running my little butt over. If she asks why- I’ll just say- ‘Butt dialing!’ Jenny walks back into my room; she flops bully fist on the bed. I asked uneasily with curiosity- ‘So what transpired last night?’ She mopes for a second. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I couldn’t call back. I didn’t get off the home phone with Ken until, like four am. And because my mom is a b*tch she took my cell away last night before staying out too late on a school night.

So, what are we cooking for your mom?" "One of her favorite dishes---nasi campur, a traditional dish from Jakarta, where my father was born." He pauses, flashes a wicked grin. "You'll love it." "What if I don't?" "Then there's something wrong with your taste buds." He grins again. "I assure you that you'll be licking your plate." After giving me a sexy smirk, he unpacks the crate, unloading spices and ingredients, and says, "Nasi campur is one of Indonesia's national dishes---very traditional. The name means 'mixed rice,' and it's typically served with a variety of local dishes, such as chicken satay, beef rendang, prawn crackers.

Jake and Lynn didn’t want to hear this back then,” he said, “but you three are my kids, and that’s no disrespect to your dad. Your mom’s pain was my pain, and I was glad to carry it, because it meant I could support her. I admit I came into it without knowing what the heck I was doing. Your brother and sister battled me and punished me for it. And to that I say, fair enough. But kiddo, it is a pleasure having you in my life.

Religion is the root of all evil,” dad had decreed. Then does that make mom evil? I had reeled. But there in the empty unlit lot, I saw the crack in his foundation. Dad as an atheist—I couldn’t quite buy it. His words didn’t match his way. Dad the mystic, I thought, as if righting a crooked painting. Mom had taught me about mystics. It wasn’t the typical father stuff that made dad one, though he had done it all. Keep your eye on the ball. Aim for the bull’s-eye, hold the bow steady. When I let go of the bike, you stay pedaling. Sound out the word. No, his mysticism was an ability to be both a thousand miles away and right here with me, a creativity born of boyhood alone on a mountain. Despite his unrelenting intellectual certainty, dad spoke of a nail-less bookcase like psalm speaks of valley.

Motherhood isn't a typical love story, it's the raw unedited version with all the outtakes, which is what makes it the most beautiful love story of all

Best-selling how-to-save-Ophelia books aside, was it even possible for any parent of a daughter in the early 1990s to do much but watch from the boat as an entire generation of girls sank beneath the surface? After your trip to the gallery, you and your mom stop at a café for French onion soup. She tries to give you words of encouragement, words to help you navigate what she imagines to be the typically treacherous waters of middle school drama. You can’t bring yourself to tell her the real problem: You aren’t pretty enough. You will never be pretty enough. You can’t tell her because you are ashamed that you have a problem so clearly unfixable, a problem that can’t be solved by working harder.

I'm sorry. I am just your typical suburban mom that watches Sons of Anarchy, and I think I am all bad ass. I will shut up.

From time to time, mothers come across people who don't have children, but who still have all the answers about what they should or should not be doing with their child. This advice is typically met with false appreciation followed by sarcastic laughter with their mom friends the next day. It's not that those non-moms are trying to be obnoxious, and it's not that those moms are trying to be mean. It's just that unless you've had to care for a child twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, then you might want to keep your opinions to yourself because you ain't about that life.

One of my favorite examples of how souls retain their personality quirks and charms happened when I did a group reading for a bunch of sisters and their mom after their father had died. His soul came through and said that when Mom goes on her cruise, he’ll be with her. He described how amazing it would be--the whole family would be on a large boat, and because it was a Disney cruise, Mickey Mouse and Cinderella would be there too. The woman was very confused, since she hadn’t planned a vacation for herself recently, much less such an indulgent one. “I don’t know what my husband’s talking about,” she said. “I can’t afford to go on a trip like that.” But her husband’s soul kept at it. He was insistent! After lots of sideways glances, the kids burst out laughing. “Okay, Dad, we’ll tell her!” they said. The girls had planned a surprise birthday cruise for the family for their mom’s seventieth birthday. “This is so typical,” the mom said. “He could never keep anything to himself!” Clearly, he’s still into blowing secrets from the Other Side.

Some people might think it's odd that we hardly ever eat dinner together at the table. I like our way, though. It makes me feel grown-up, like Mom and Dad don't have to pretend to care about typical dinnertime rituals. We're all adults here. We eat how we want to eat. But dinner at Hart House is like a dance. Not only do I not know the steps, but I seem to have forgotten how to move my legs entirely.

One minute your teen is cool, calm, and rational, and the next minute he’s a screaming, irrational, emotional train wreck. If this is the typical teen, imagine the one with executive skills weaknesses—can’t find anything (“Mom, where did you put my backpack?!”), doesn’t watch the road, no sense that deadlines really do exist in the world, willing to try whatever his friends do. If you have a teen with executive skills weaknesses, it’s like taking the typical teen and cranking up the volume—everything is louder, more intense, more scattered.

Having a talk was another buzzword phrase in our house, one that meant something was wrong. More often than not their talks we're controlled arguments that generally centered on housework (laundry piles still on the dining room table!) or the handling of us girls. Revelations gleaned in a typical talk: Dad didn't like the condescending tone Mom often used with is; Mom didn't like his yelling and its wildly inconst usage; Dad thought she was too quick to punish; Mom didn't like having her discipline edicts questioned in front of us. Initially acrimonious, their talks somehow managed to end like a pregame pep talk: rote promises to be rational in the face of our irrationality, a renewed commitment to present a united front, team play, then hands in the middle: Go, parents on three, ready, break!

The sacrifice was a typical one for Carol, who quickly learned that life as an army wife and mom meant that her husband’s career would always come first and that it would be difficult—if not impossible—for her to hold down a steady job.

Chokeberry gets the award for the worst plant name ever given in the English language. Yes--worse that carrion flower, worse than bastard tad flax, and even worse than broomrape. The problem is not so much that chokeberry sounds bad--although certainly the name is an insult to good fruit. More importantly, the name makes the plant almost impossible to communicate about. The vast majority of people, upon hearing or seeing the word chokeberry, think that they have just heard or read the word chokecherry. (Read carefully; these are two different words.) A typical conversation proceeds like this: "Another interesting wild fruit is the chokeberry, which is small and black ..." "Oh yeah, my mom used to make chokecherry jelly. It was great." "Actually, I said chokeBerries." "Yeah, chokecherry jelly. Sometimes we'd eat 'em right off the tree." "I'm not talking about chokecherries; I'm talking about chokeBBBerries." "I heard you! What do you think I'm talking about?" On and on it goes.

Typically moms are laying a guilt trip to convince their thirty-five-year-old married daughters to have children. I've always thought that mothers who ask their children to provide them with grandchildren are acting like Joe Francis, the mastermind behind Girls Gone Wild: Come on! Take your top off for the camera because it will benefit me!