The Teenager is home. Since July 4th, I stood still, breath held, waiting for my child’s return home. Being overseas, so out of reach, added a new dimension of worry. We’ve been apart for stretches of time—3 weeks, 6 weeks, 9 weeks—and even though she always returned with lice, the distance was just a two or three hour drive to her camp, deep in the woods. Home, so close. This trip was appreciated by The Teenager, her face enveloped that familiar traveller’s fatigue as she walked out of customs and into my arms. For the first time in my life as a New Yorker, I took the Long Island Railroad on a Saturday night to the Airtrain, which dropped me off directly in front of the Arrivals terminal of the airline she flew home with. I stood, rather impatiently, waiting for her, as millions do every hour of every day at airports, anxiously reading her texts, updates really (“immigration,” “baggage claim,” “UGH this is taking forever.”). I found a discarded cart; grateful for the small things I was. A steady stream of people kept emerging. Why did I bring a book? I couldn’t even listen to a podcast; I was on eggshells, until the very moment I saw her, searching for me. Her mom. After five weeks, I could breathe again, the breath of a family reunited. Now a new time clock is in place. In three weeks, I take her to college. Here we go.
RIP Charlotte Rae.
Joan Morgan: ” Women have certainly been battling, and diss records are part of hip-hop.”
Suzy Welch: “Simply put, to go back to work without first upgrading your tech skill is a dead end.”
Dione Warwick is a badass.
On pregnancies, on abortions, on it all.
Bear cam, not to be confused with beer cam.
And now have a laugh with Leslie Jones.