Me and my big mouth, why did I ever promise my "children" I wouldn’t write about
them? Most people would die, and some actually do you know (think obituary column) to have
their name in print.
    I’ll admit that it’s terribly exciting seeing your name in the newspaper for the first time,
but just like everything, it loses its thrill. The only thing that still excites me with the same
intensity is seeing my adult children. The only thing that deflates my ego is seeing my adult
children because, and get this – I don’t generate the same excitement from them at seeing me —
it’s unbelievable!
    Oh, I’ll get a kiss or hug, but only if I wrestle them in a headlock, but a forced kiss loses something, wouldn’t you say? And if after my innocent, caring 20 questions I get one more exasperated, “Oh, Mother!”  – I’m leaving the private sector and entering a convent, a cloistered order. See how they like peeking at me from behind massive stone walls. But sometimes there are invisible walls between loved ones, huh?
    “Mother, you expect too much,” insists my middle one.
     Do I, I wonder? I mean I used to have to, want to, tell my mother everything; my
children tell me very little. Oh, I hear about their frustrations, aggravations and troubles, but I
want laughter! Excitement! And I want every day to feel like a holiday when I’m with them.
    “Mother, you always want to joke around with us and life just isn’t that way,” insists my
youngest. “But I laugh with OTHER people,” I cry.

“That’s because you’re not emotionally connected to them, and they don’t get big doses
of you,” offered my oldest, who has her PhD.

“What the heck does THAT mean?”

“It means you can really love a person, but who the hell wants to hang around them all the time?” interjects my son. “Remember Ma, there are no two Sundays in one week.”

No two Sundays in one week. Wow, I thought, that’s deep! But wait a minute! That's the title of one of my published articles. Don't tell me my kids actually read my stuff? Never once have any of them even alluded to that

If I share with you the extraordinary feats my four adult children have accomplished, you’ll think I’m bragging. And if I tell you about the heart-wrenching things some of my children have experienced, you’ll wince and say, “Whom the heck is she kidding? No parent could live through that!” But with a strong faith, incredible support system and counseling, you can get through almost anything.

“You’re like iron inside,” insists my doctor.

“Yes, but iron can rust and break apart, can’t it?” I’m relieved he didn’t have the heart to answer

“There’s so much anxiety attached to parenthood, especially when you’re hung up on their health and safety,” I wearily confess.

“You must learn to let go so that they can learn coping skills,” he continued.

“But isn’t 55 years old too young to throw them out into the world?”

“Only if they live to be 250!” he snapped. “Don't think I would be shocked if you would, if you could, still send them to their pediatrician. But then, what kind of baby doctor still accepts appointments for those who are almost eligible for Medicare?

“One whom I have made very, very rich.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still paying their way through life?”

“A dollar here, a dollar there, is that so bad?”

The glare he shot me conveyed the message that I shouldn’t be shelling out even a single penny. “You’re depriving them of the pure pleasure of making it on their own.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m doing wrong,” I almost yelled. “I want to hear what I’m doing RIGHT!”

That dopey doctor gave me another glare and a disgusted grunt. " You won't be hearing that from me," he promised.