I’ve taught my kids a lot things. I taught them how to tie their shoes, how to use a fork, how to use a toilet, and to say “please” and “thank you.” I taught them how to write a thank you note — and a pretty damn good one at that.
I taught them how to craft a thesis sentence, how to make up riddles in their heads to memorize definitions of obscure vocabulary words or hard-to-remember dates for tests. I taught them how to firmly shake a person’s hand and to look that person in the eye as they do so. I taught them how to say “I love you” and to mean it.
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I had this ritual when I used to go to a lot of Broadway shows. I flipped right to the spread in the Playbill which listed all of the hit shows and counted the ones I had seen. The number was always high.
My mother took me to see just about everything on Broadway. Her favorite musicals were the ones that left her “singing up the aisles” and well into the train ride back home in suburban Philadelphia. In 1981 she took me to my first show, Annie. I fell in love with little orphan Annie, her sunny disposition and her can do attitude. She reminded me of my mother. When Annie sang about the sun coming out tomorrow, my mother and I nodded, singing in our heads right along with her. Soon after, we went to see Peter Pan. When Sandy Duncan, in the lead role, asked us to clap if we believed in fairies, my mother clapped faster and louder than anyone in the theater. I think she alone may have saved Tinkerbell during that matinee. Read full article here.
When I was a new mom, I adored BabyGap. The whole concept was brilliant: Dress your babies in clothes that you would wear, only smaller. The simple fact that these clothes were so small made them cute.
When my son was a baby, I dressed him in BabyGap argyle socks and BabyGap soft knit winter hats — the ones with the earflaps on them. He also wore BabyGap khaki pants that looked just like the ones my husband wore, only the baby ones had snaps down the legs to make diaper changes easier. Read full article here.
I am a planner. I like to write my plans down in my paper calendar, and I derive great pleasure in looking ahead at the calendar to see what’s on the horizon. This past summer, in a massive purge of old boxes in my basement, I found a slew of calendars from my past. I laughed out loud at my younger self, perusing through my high school wall calendar, which included such events as History test, school dance and sleepover at friend’s house.
Those calendars almost always included some sort of colorful count down to the next big thing—the end of the school year, the first day of camp, a graduation, the start of a new school. I seemed to always be waiting on what came next. I remember telling myself that my life, my real life, would start whenever that next thing happened. Read full article here.