My older sister’s job was rinsing them and mine was loading them schmutz-fee into the dishwasher. My brother’s job was being the only son.
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Are two overnights a month better than four visits for a few hours each plus having her nearby for spontaneous additional visits?
That Greta’s son had set parental controls on his mother’s computer gave me more than just a chuckle; it gave me a jolt, reminding me of the parent-child reversals I had been noticing more and more in my own life.
y very presence seemed to bring out the worrywart in my adventuresome Eliza, as though every day of our time together in Laos were Freaky Friday, as in the film of the same name in which mother and daughter find their personalities exchanged.
“Mom! That’s exactly why I’m terrified of sponges!” my daughter cried.
Like a bicycle tire that has just rolled over a shard of glass, the air began seeping out of my buoyant mood.
I regret not only some of my meddling on my children’s behalf, but also having kept a secret.