I learned a new phrase recently: lawn-mower mom.
Apparently it’s been around for awhile, along with its predecessors, the helicopter mom and the Tiger Mom.
Crissy Grenier knew something was different about her firstborn by the time he was 6 months old.
Owen didn’t like to be held or played with. He wasn’t interested in people’s faces. He was a terrible sleeper and had “constant” ear infections.
(Note: Check out more from our interview with Brigid Schulte here.)
I actually had this conversation the other day:
I ran into a friend the other day with her 6-year-old, who had just celebrated her birthday with a long-awaited party. I asked how it went.
“It was fun,” the 6-year-old said, “but we didn’t get to do everything on the schedule.”
Flashback to my daughter’s sixth birthday party.
We’re selling candy again.
Not the boxes of Fannie May chocolates we sold last fall to support the band program.
These chocolate bars will help fund the eighth-grade field trip.
By my count, it’s our sixth fundraiser of the school year, split among our two children.
Breast cancer has met its match in Lara Handsfield.
Yes, it knocked her flat for a few days, those first horrible days when she lay curled up in a ball, sobbing as she Skyped with her husband who’d just flown to Denmark, not knowing what was to come.
Fifty years ago is a long time when you’re 13.
Three generations. Half a century.
And it came to pass that the holiday season approached, and the people set about making preparations.
Throughout the land, they procured gifts from shops and Internet, commencing on the day that has come to be known as Black Friday.
They baked provisions for holiday festivities and packed belongings for travels near and far to be with kin.
My daughter was 7 when I got The Question.
She was a Tooth Fairy fanatic and had established an ongoing correspondence with our personal fairyland ambassador, Tara.
But one of her darling classmates had suggested that perhaps Tara wasn’t real after all.