I've been through dolls and matchbox cars- a precious girl, a sporting boy, and sleepovers a thousand times; I called it stress - they jumped for joy. At first a bike and then a car; for each I wore my worry cap- the wondering and letting go... if only I'd have had a map. Her marriage here, his marriage there- a budding teen, one on the way. It's funny how the world goes 'round- how memories are made each day. It's all awash, but yet it's not, for now we have a frisky pom

His Awkward Age began at birth. I am his mom.  I know it. And now that he’s reached twenty-one, I’m doubtful he’ll outgrow it. By the...

Poetry was made for mothers, scribbling stanzas in stolen moments during bath time, defenseless against sudsy splashes, or silently and...