It’s still dark outside.
I walk in right on time.
Well, maybe a minute early.
So that I have time to watch her sleep.
She looks just like the toddler she used to be.
Except now her bed is bigger and so is she.
Today is my son’s birthday.
His 17th one.
And for the first time ever, I’m not with him. I can't hug him more than he wants me to. I can't tell him, again, the story of his birth. And I can't bake him a birthday cake from scratch. (Oh, right, I wouldn't do that anyway.)
First, they start going down to the playground at the end of the street. By themselves.
And walking the mile home from school.
I knew this week was going to be a crazy one.
I'm working on a new project or two. The first quarter of school is coming to a close for my kids.
And I was driving down to Miami with my daughter to go to a concert. One that she was really excited for. The Cud Life...
I’ve been thinking a lot about that post I wrote last week.
Don’t Stare At My Daughter.
I got a lot of feedback on it. Mostly women with daughters who were feeling the same way that I did.
Disgusted. Concerned. And powerless.
I went to the mall yesterday with my two kids. My giant 16 year-old son and his sister, my petite 14 year-old daughter.
We had just walked through the doors, and were on our way to one of those smelly teen emporiums to return a shirt, when I noticed these two men staring at us. ...