Lifted, By My Girls! — The Archives — Formerly Vented Uplift

  When my son was two, he bit another child in his daycare room. He went on to do it six more times in a few weeks, and I was horrified.   I sought the counsel of our pediatrician. He was old and wise and usually knew how to make me feel better. I told him I was scared there was something wrong with my child. What would make him do this?   I couldn't sleep, and no amount of reassurance from his daycare teacher that this was "normal" helped. I hoped my pediatrician could offer something of use. He confirmed everything the daycare teacher had already shared: why my son might be biting and why he would likely soon stop. But none of those made me feel any less alone.   I talked about how much I worried about the other mother--The one that has to pick up her kid and find out he was bitten AGAIN. Then he said the one thing that made me feel a teeny tiny bit better: "Mrs. Lennon. I've been doing this for a very long time. Biting happens, and it will stop. Tha...

Ah, moms. You love em', you hate em', but no matter what you do, you eventually turn into them. I'm not saying this as a curse or death sentence. I am presenting this as a celebration. I lost my mom at the age of 25. She was 50, and the significance of me being exactly half her age does not elude me. My Beautiful Mom at age 25 She never met my husband, and she never met her grandson. I argued with the universe about what was fair and what I felt I deserved. Just so you know,  the universe never argues back. About four years ago, when my son was just a wee babe, strange occurrences kept happening. I began accidentally breaking every gift my mother had given me. They were all silly little things but full of magical memories. The toothbrush holder she made in pottery class, the glass sculpture she gave me when I graduated high school, planters, and jewelry all broke in my hands. I sat and sobbed over every shattered remnant. I cried ugly, dramatic, child tears. One time my son...