I may have possibly figured out what it means to be a mom to three adult sons…sort of.

They call us, they text us, they come home during breaks.

Who will hold their hand and tell them it will be OK when they grow up and move away?

You have been alive for half a century, born in the middle of the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam, before Stonewall even happened or Roe v. Wade. Your first daughter unpacks her things in her dorm room, navigates the cafeteria.

When my only daughter was set to go to college, I was ready to for the emotional punch in the gut.

It’s kind of a cruel trick that life plays on some of us, those who get so caught up in the minutia of the moment that we miss the true beauty happening right in front of us.

We don’t get do-overs as parents; we carry the past with us the whole time.

If you learn nothing else from me about cooking, at least learn this: how to properly scramble an egg.

My kids are part of the generation whose childhoods marched forward alongside the publication of each new Harry Potter book.

This year, it’s a different kind of Christmas. But it will be just fine. Perhaps, even festive.