Each year I wonder, do I deserve it? Have I done enough to be the mommy they believe me to be?
As an awkward child, I found the forced cheerfulness and pressure to adopt color-coded attire during “spirit days” in school humiliating.
When the school principal noticed three disoriented children, wearing pajamas, walking around in front of the building, she went out to investigate.
Despite the missing words, there are inscriptions where I tell him how much he was wanted, how intelligent he is, how he is our greatest gift.
I can’t control and fix everything like I did when they were toddlers, and I shouldn’t. But, I really want to.
When we got home from the party, bugs were visibly crawling in her hair. I raced to the supermarket and picked up pesticide-grade lice removal kits and wine. With Catholic guilt about probably infesting the movie theater, I stayed up all night cleaning the house, scrubbing, washing sheets, towels, bedding, coats, scarves, hats, and stuffed animals.
My parents' bed was always warm. A cushion of comfort, wrapped around my body, encouraging me to snuggle in deeper, pull the blankets up tighter.
He is only five and I didn't lose him at a familiar school with adults he trusted. I left him hiding in a bush at a small, local water park during an intense game of hide and seek.
I've seen a lot of writing from moms who are sad to see the end of summer. They want more precious sun-soaked days with their children. More ice cream and …
By Stacey Conner. My memories from summer camp are all about freedom.