My friend Deb called me last October.  I hadn’t seen her in about seven years.  Our 35^th high school reunion was coming up and she wondered if I’d want to go with her.  I was thrilled to hear her voice although I’d been hurt and confused during the past several years, wondering why she’d let our friendship wither.  I’d long considered her one of my closest friends, but calls and cards had gone unanswered for a few years before I’d stopped contacting her. 

Toughest to digest was that our friendship moved from the slow lane to the exit ramp when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age forty-four.  I so wanted to support her through her treatments but she did not need me.  She had her husband, her sisters and other friends who lived closer.  I heard enough to know she’d survived, but her not needing or wanting my support forced me to realize our friendship had eroded more than I’d been willing to admit.  A few years later, my holiday card was returned with a red stamp of No Forwarding Address.  I took this as the final signal that I should let the relationship go.

The high school reunion was a blast.  Deb spent the weekend at my house.  We gabbed for hours.  She made no mention of her silence over the years and I’d decided beforehand that I would welcome her back, no questions asked.  I honestly don’t think the years of silence were anything personal – probably more to do with living one-hundred miles away, raising two teenagers and finding time with a husband who worked long hours.  I can’t say I felt no resentment but mostly I was glad to have her back.

And she is back.  She initiated my family’s spending a weekend at her home.  We’ve met for lunch.  She sent me a lovely bouquet of pink roses when I hit a tough patch at work along with a card saying how happy she is that we’re back in touch.

She also asked me to join her this July in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  We’ll trek twenty-six miles in San Francisco over two days.  We met for a twelve-mile training walk last week.  We exchanged fundraising tips, sock recommendations and organic snacks.  I’ll be there for her on July 11^th and 12^th.    We’ll walk together to honor her ten years as a breast cancer survivor and our thirty-eight years of friendship.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, breast cancer, Breast Cancer Survivor, By Marianne Lonsdale, close friends, high school reunion, lost friendship, reunited, San Francisco, survived

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My father-in-law, Glyn, moved to a nursing home in early December. We came bearing gifts on Christmas day – my husband, me, our 10-year old son, along with my husband’s brother and his 11-year old daughter.

Glyn sat in the dining room. A first for him as he had been taking all his meals in his room. He ate his prime rib with gusto as we hovered around the table. Conversation was sparse. I had thought that this visit to the nursing home would be sad but it felt okay.

Holding a gift box and tearing the wrapping paper off was difficult for Glyn. My husband helped him open a large box filled with a heavy black jacket. I wondered if he’d ever get the chance to wear it.

“Did you bring the camera?” my husband asked.

“Yes,” I replied, fumbling in my purse and hoping the batteries were charged.

I focused the camera on my husband, our son, his brother, and our niece as they stood behind my seated father-in-law. I felt a rush of anxiety. Should we be taking this picture?

No, no, not here, not the annual family picture in a nursing home. Pictures would stop with last year. No more, no.

The nervous surge receded. I could take the picture. This is where we gathered, where we honored Glyn this year. I pushed the button, capturing the three generations.

“This is the nicest Christmas I’ve had in a long time,” my father-in-law said.

“I’ll bring his presents to his room,” I said and quickly grabbed the jacket and another gift. His room was a short walk down the hall. I barely made it before bursting into tears.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: annual family picture, By Marianne Lonsdale, Christmas, Gifts, nurseing home, prime rib, tears, video camera

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My father-in-law will move from a skilled nursing facility to an assisted living apartment this week.

My husband and I are a bit frantic about figuring out what furniture and belongings from his large three-bedroom home will fit best in the new, tiny apartment, and about getting his nicotine stained and smelly condominium ready to rent out.

And we try not to panic over where the money to pay for all of this will come from.

My 10-year old son, Nick, spent Sunday afternoon with us at Grandpa’s home, helping us sort through a lifetime of possessions. Nick found treasures – a digital camera, an electronic keyboard, a bag of rolled pennies too heavy to carry, a telescope, and a tape recorder.

He hauled trash with us to the dumpster, hiking up and down the stairs about 40 times. He saw tears roll down both his parents’ faces when we stumbled into the past. Photo albums, of course. But how to explain my tears when I found the Neiman Marcus box with the chiffon head scarves of the grandmother who was dead before Nick was born?

Much went unsaid.

The thought crossed my mind many times that Nick might be doing this for us one day. I didn’t voice the thought. Too much of a burden for a 10-year old. But I hope the day stands out in his mind. I hope Nick takes in what good care his father is giving to his grandfather. That is a lesson to be learned.

We take care of each other. Always, forever, no matter what.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: apartment, assisted living apartment, By Marianne Lonsdale, father-in-law, furniture, grandpa, skilled nursing facility

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I pop out of bed at 5:45 am and push the alarm button to off.

I pad down the hall and get the coffee started, careful not to wake my husband or son. My workout clothes, laid out the night before, await me on the sofa. I dress, walk up the driveway to pick up the newspaper. The moon still shines and the air is crisp and cold.

Twenty-five minutes for sipping coffee and reading the paper before I head to my 6:30 a.m. exercise class. An hour of hard sweating. Back home for a quick shower, an even quicker bowl of cereal and I’m out the door by 8 a.m.

Three more stops before I get to work – gas station, ATM and dry cleaners. I slide into my desk chair a few minutes before 9 a.m.

I’ve already had a full morning. This amazes me. In the years before motherhood, I never in my wildest dreams thought I could accomplish anything in the morning. I was lucky to get showered, dressed and out the door. Even coffee and breakfast was at my desk.

Now morning is MY TIME.

I relish my early hours. My time to myself to exercise, to squeeze in a few errands. To do it all early so I have more time with my husband and son later in the day when they need and want me.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: ATM, By Marianne Lonsdale, cereal, dry cleaners, exercise class, gas station, motherhood., newspaper, shower

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My husband sits in the row ahead of me, with the other Dads, at Little League night at the ballpark. He’s one of the guys, his Oakland A’s hat moving up and down as he roots for the home team.

Michael never played sports as a kid.

Felt like an outsider, like he didn’t know how to fit in with the sporty guys. He hung out with the juvenile delinquents, but didn’t really fit in with them, either. He’d call both groups boneheads and wonder if he’d ever find his own tribe.

Then he had a son.

He didn’t know his son would be his entry ticket. Nick’s not so sporty either but he wants to fit in with the boys.

So Michael helps him.

He’s been an assistant baseball coach for two seasons. A certified coach. Often scared he’ll be found out. That the other guys will figure out that he does not know what the hell he’s doing.

Tonight Michael is a jock.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, talking baseball, yelling to the players on the field. Being parents has brought us into so many groups that we would not have been a part of otherwise. My eyes fill with tears as I watch my husband truly fitting.

There are so many benefits to parenting that are not obvious or expected.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: ballpark, baseball, baseball coach, By Marianne Lonsdale, jock, juvenile delinquents, Little League, Oakland A's, sports

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I’m home alone for six days while my husband and son ski in Lake Tahoe!!!

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, Grey's Anatomy, Lake Tahoe, time alone

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My son loves to hear me sing lullabies.

“Sing to me, Mommy,” his sleepy voice pleads as I sit on his bed, stroking his head. I start my trio of songs, almost carrying a tune. My singing voice is horrible. I can’t hear when I’m off key.

I love music so I don’t think I’m tone deaf, but something’s missing in how I hear the notes. What comes out of my mouth does not at all match what I hear in my head.

But Nick loves my lullabies. Nick loves me.

My husband never heard me sing before we had Nick. I don’t sing along in the car, not even in the shower. But right after Nick was born, I started singing aloud to him. He’d be snug in my arms, nursing, and I’d sing. I felt my mother singing through me when the Irish standard, "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral," came out of my mouth.

My shyness, my embarrassment about my voice, doesn’t matter if it’s what Nick needs. I’ll do whatever I need to take care of my boy, to make him feel safe and secure.

Nick has helped me find so many spaces in myself that I thought were closed or didn’t know existed. My boy has helped me find my voice and my joy.

I hope my unconditional love of him will help him grow as much as his love nourishes me.

By Marianne Longsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, love, lullabies, singing, son

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I walk through the school yard, heading back to my car, ready to roll into work. Small groups of moms stand around the play area, chatting and drinking coffee from commuter mugs. My insecurities kick in and I wonder what group wants me.

Where do I fit?

There are the moms of older kids, who know everything about the school and how my kid will behave since they’ve been through it already. Sometimes they like to talk to me, to give me advice. I play dumb and grateful.

There are the soccer moms, probably rearranging car pools for the fourth time this week. My son doesn’t play soccer so that group is not for me. I also don’t fit in with the moms with money – I didn’t even know that “development” was another word for fundraising before my son started school.

Sometimes I feel like I’m back in high school.

It doesn’t help that I’m not good at broaching groups. I don’t know how to break in. If I nudge my way into the group and listen, am I invading personal space? If I laugh too loudly at some not so funny remark, or add my own comments, am I interrupting? I somehow missed the life lesson about how to properly infiltrate a group.

I find it easiest most days to be the working mom, too busy to stop. I smile and keep walking, trying to project purpose, somewhere to go. I nod hellos, sometimes tap lightly on a mom’s arm or pat a back.

Maybe by middle school, I’ll find my place in the school yard.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, elementary school, High School Musical, middle school, outcast

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When did it become common practice for parents to take turns buying junk food to give kids after playing a sport?

My son has played sports for about three years and I’m still wide-eyed when a mom pulls out cupcakes with frosting towers as soon as the last inning ends.

I’m appalled and feel powerless to change this tradition.

“The snacks are so important,” some perky mom says at the start of each season. “That’s why the kids play, what they look forward to.”

What about health? What about the pleasure of playing? What about the child-obesity crisis?

My concern escalated last spring when my son got snacks not just after baseball games, but also after practice. Practice ended at six p.m. Did he really need a bag of chips and a sugary drink as an appetizer before dinner?

I forbid him to partake which made me the mean mom.

I try to come up with something healthy when it’s my turn. Something healthy, yet tasty enough that my son won’t be embarrassed. For my last attempt, I stuffed baggies with a cheese stick and a handful of wheat thins.

Another mom, whose turn it was not, brought doughnuts. Just in case whoever had snacks forgot -- she didn’t want the kids to suffer.

Guess which snack the kids chose?

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, donuts, healthy foods, sugar

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My son’s school has used the auditorium at the Oakland Mormon Temple for many years for our annual winter concert. 

The auditorium can accommodate the crowd of several hundred students, parents, grandparents and friends who flock to this holiday highlight.  The huge outdoor light and nativity display add to our anticipation as we walk through the crisp night air into the warm theatre.

We relish the familiarity of this winter ritual.  The opening act is the kindergarteners (don’t they absolutely get more adorable each year?) marching down the aisles in angel garb. 

Classes rotate on and off the stage for their turn to shine.  By the time the middle school rock band lets loose, we’re all ready to rise from our seats and boogie around the auditorium.  The closing act is a corny carol sung by faculty and staff.  The winter concert is a well-oiled machine and we would not change a thing.

Or would we? 

Didn’t the Mormon Church support Proposition 8?  Doesn’t the Mormon Church oppose gay marriage?  Our school mission statement includes the standard language regarding diversity.  So should we continue to hold our concert at an institution that is not welcoming to many of our families?

Hell no. 

We pulled the plug. 

The concert will go on next week.  We’re still grappling with logistics.  The theatre will be our school gymnasium.  The sound system sucks and there is no stage.  We cannot all fit so there will be two concerts.  One for kindergarten through fourth grades and a second for fifth through eighth grades. 

I’ll boogie to the rock band but miss the precious angels.  The younger parents will miss the rowdy middle school performances as well as a glimpse of their kids in a few years.

Our children will hear honesty and commitment to the values of our secular community.  Our mission, our beliefs and what we hold important are not bullets on posters tacked up around school. 

We practice what we preach. 

I am proud.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, Equality for all, Mormon Church, Prop. 8

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When I first met Jeff, he was a young teenager and I was in my mid-thirties.  He was a sweet, introverted, Keanu Reeves look-alike.   

I’d not seen him for fifteen years when he e-mailed me last summer. 

Now he was a thirty-year-old struggling singer-songwriter, touring the country.  He might be in the Bay Area later in the year.  I told him we’d love to see him and he was welcome to stay with us.  I was both surprised to hear from him, and to find he’s one of those people I feel connected to no matter how much time has passed.

Halloween.  Twelve-thirty a.m.  The phone woke me from a deep slumber. 

“Hey, Marianne, that offer still open?  Played a house party in Oakland and I think the party’s going all night.”

I gave directions and told him the front door was unlocked.  He should head down the stairs to the futon in our family room.  I crawled back into bed, warmed myself against my husband, and whispered to him that Jeff was coming.

“That’s crazy,” my husband said.

My eleven-year-old son, Nick, was taken aback the next morning when he learned his mother had let a near stranger walk into our unlocked house at one a.m.

“Who is it again?”  he asked.  “Uncle Peter’s ex-wife’s son?”  He threw his hands up.  “Is he even a cousin to me?”

The cupboard was bare.  Nick and I dashed to Safeway for cereal and milk and to the French bakery for morning buns and cinnamon bread.  I’d been running on empty for a month.   No cooking.

Jeff is in my kitchen, sitting on a stool at the counter.  I’m pouring him strong coffee as he brings my husband and me up to date on his last fifteen years.  He’s a gorgeous man.  What used to come across as introverted now comes across as cool and smooth.  Long and lean, a beautiful mix of French, German and Native American.  He’s played small venues since June, mostly sleeping in his car.  His life is tough but he seems unencumbered, free.

Jeff fascinates me.  I never ever followed my passions like he is doing.  I feel like such a suburban matron at times but here I have this roaming troubadour in my kitchen.  I’m excited.  Maybe I’m not so dull after all.

He headed down to Santa Monica a few hours later.  He hugged us, thanked us, and hugged us again.  Then gave us four copies of his CD.

I miss him already.  

I don’t exactly know why. 

His visit brought me inward.  I’m not clear if I want to mother him or make love to him. 

That combination reaction is unsettling. 

I’m lost in myself this week.  It feels a little scary and a little good.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, Free-Spirit

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My memory is lost. Between Mom Brain and menopause, I lose chunks of memory for minutes or hours.

I’ve gotten used to it.

I don’t get flustered if I can’t remember my next-door neighbor’s name – I know that her name will return to my memory at a later date.

My son does not like my memory lapses. I rushed to BART from work one afternoon, did a short leap from the platform to the train, and then remembered I’d forgotten my purse at the office. I hopped out as the train doors were closing. Hustled back to the office, took a later train and called my husband to tell him to pick up Nick.

I told my silly story about the forgotten purse while we ate dinner. I was laughing and I looked across the table to my son.

Nick was crying.

“It’s not funny, Mommy,” he says. He was pissed. “You need to stop forgetting everything.”

I realized that to Nick I appear out of control. The Mommy he depends on to keep his world spinning, to keep order for him, could not even remember her purse.

Ah, I thought.

This is the start of him finding out I’m not omnipotent. Not perfect. And also the start of me realizing that maybe he doesn’t need to know everything about me. Maybe I just give too much information sometimes.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, Memory

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The sound of Nick’s quick steps on the hardwood floor awoke me before I heard his voice at my bedside. 

“Mom,” my eleven-year old said.  “I had a really bad nightmare.  I’m so scared.”

I pulled my covers back and pushed my body upright.  I’m always a bit surprised at how easily I spring into mom mode in the middle of the night.

“I’ll lay down with you, sweetie,” I assured him.

I draped my arm around his shoulders and we walked down the hall to my son’s bedroom.  My husband slept soundly, completely unaware we were awake.

Nick lay down on his stomach, scooting against the wall to give me a slice of his twin bed. 

“Do you remember the dream?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yes,” he answered.  “It was so scary.”  His hot cheek lay on mine, his mouth near my ear.  “I dreamt that Sarah Palin was ruler of the nation.”

I stifled a laugh. 

This was my nightmare, too.

“She made all the boys go to doctors for hearing tests.  But instead of a test, they would hear a loud noise and die.  I see all these boys dying.  Falling dead off of chairs, onto the floor.”

“Honey, that’s horrible,” I said.  My heart ached and cringed.

Nick fell back to sleep within minutes. I stayed with him for a couple of hours, drifting in and out of sleep, keeping watch.  I didn’t want him to wake up alone in the dark.

Nick’s prone to nightmares.  He’d had night terrors during his younger years where he would sleep walk and fight off imaginary monsters.  He is not allowed to watch horror movies or violent crime dramas.  Nor can he choose books with scary themes.  

But I had not shut out real life.

Nick joins in discussions with his Dad and me about the presidential election and the war in Iraq.  He understands what a draft is.  He’s been to antiwar rallies with his Dad.  As far as I know, he’s never seen the video footage from September 11^th, but he has asked lots of questions this year about what happened that day. 

Maybe real life is just too scary for an eleven-year old boy right now.  Maybe his Mommy needs to keep a better watch out during the daylight hours for what scares him before his dreams are invaded by real terrors.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, scary

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My eleven-year old son, Nick, was one of those picky eaters. 

A white eater – left to his own devices he would eat only white bread, white rolls, potatoes sans skins, pasta and his very favorite, steamed rice. 

Most parenting books said not to make food an issue.  But my husband and I forced some concerns.  He had to eat green vegetables.  He eats a bowl of steamed broccoli almost daily and has for years.  We no longer buy white bread although I just stopped cutting the crust off the wheat bread last year.  We’ve exposed him to so many different foods because we like variety and different ethnic flavors.

But Nick held fast to his love of white -- until about six months ago.  Then he started ordering mussels, which his dad loves, but I won’t touch.  Ditto for linguini with clam sauce.  Nick seemed to relish his willingness to try new foods as much as I enjoyed this change. 

We went to France for sixteen days in June.  Our first trip as a family out of the country.  I hoped Nick would try new foods but figured cheese, baguettes, pizza, and pasta would be available.  Nick tried everything that came his way: ratatouille, crepes Suzette, tapenades, escargot, rabbit, duck confit, several types of pate, cassis gelato, stinky cheeses, and panna cotta. 

I have a picture of him digging into duck confit at a Paris bistro with a look of wonder and delight on his face.  He made a list in his journal of all the new foods he tried.   

I write this as a ray of hope for parents of white eaters. 

It gets better. 

Or sometimes it does not. 

I have a sixteen-year old nephew who lives on white dinner rolls. 

Bon appetit!

By Marianne Lonsdale 

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, colorful foods, white food

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She stood in front of me in line, chatting with a man several years her senior.  We were waiting to be let into Il Fornaio restaurant in San Francisco, for a luncheon with Mario Battali, celebrity chef. 

I recognized the man, a local restaurant critic. 

She and I were both dressed in the uniform of big cities - black pants, black jackets, black shirts, black bags.  I looked like an aging business woman.  She looked hip.  Her boot cut pants had two thin stripes of tiny white stitching down the middle of each leg.  Fitted black t-shirt and cropped jacket that could fit in San Francisco or on a humanitarian trip with Bono to Africa. 

I fixated on her bag. 

Mine was a black leather medium-sized satchel.  Maybe indicated classy.  More likely read as dull, does not take chances.  Her bag was messenger bag material, but not messenger bag shape – a rectangle with the long sides horizontal.  The sturdy strap rested on her shoulder and across her body.  The bag sat low on her body, hitting her right knee.  A cell phone compartment on the lower left side and three other compartments, two with zippers, one with a Velcro close.  You could fit a laptop or a change of clothes in the main compartment.  I strained to eavesdrop -- was she saying she’d just returned from Europe?

I coveted the bag. 

Once home, I logged onto ebags.com, filtering out other bags until I found it.  Not a bad price.  I was tempted.  But didn’t I already have several purses and tote bags?  Buying this bag would be impulsive, not practical.  I passed.

My family took a sixteen-day vacation to France.  The bags I used worked great.  I then started a new job commuting from Oakland to San Francisco.  My black purse and outlet Coach black leather tote functioned well to bring work, books and food back and forth across the Bay Bridge.

About midnight one Friday, I found myself back on ebags.com.  The young, hip, adventurous woman and her bag had stayed in my mind for three months.  I’d just have another look.  I looked.  I bought.

When the bag arrived, I tore open the box and then left the bag in my closet for a week.  Afraid it wouldn’t look the same on me.  The following Sunday, I transferred the contents of my purse and my tote to this one functional and hopefully chic bag.

I adjusted the shoulder strap so the bag hit right above my knee.  I checked myself out in a mirror, expecting disappointment.  Can a bag really change you? 

The bag looked great.  My look was more contemporary.  I swear it took five years off my age.  And it’s functional.  I love it and enjoy it every day.  The unwitting and unknown kindness of a stranger helped me change my internal and external image of myself. 

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: black bag, Bono, By Marianne Lonsdale, Mario Battali

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Planning for my family’s June vacation to France started months before the trip. 

One of my first considerations was what books I would bring.  Paperbacks for sure.  No lugging of hard backs.  Adam Gopnick’s book of essays, Paris to the Moon, was the first book in my France stack. 

An eye-catching cover in blues and yellows with the name French Dirt caught my eye at Book Passage and that was the second.  I’d avoided Peter Mayle’s classic, A Year in Provence.  I wanted something a bit less known.  But when I found it used for six dollars, I added it as the third and last book for my time in Paris and Provence.

The books called to me from their shelf in my bedroom closet.  I’d run my hand over their firm edges and waiver in my resolve to wait until the plane took off. 

I held my desires in check.

I cracked open Paris to the Moon as soon as I could see clouds from my window seat.  The description on the back cover said the author had moved from New York to Paris with his wife and baby, and the essays were about their family life. 

Well, not really. 

The essays, brilliantly written, were more about French politics and cultural observances.  Little mention of the writer’s family was made.  Not what I was looking for.

I read about half the book before I switched to A Year in Provence.  The writing and nonfiction stories just did not grab me, even as I toured the area in which the book was set. 

I started French Dirt and alternated among the three for the rest of the trip.  I usually read one book at a time, from first page to last.  I did finish French Dirt, by Richard Goodman, about his year of living in Provence and tending his garden.  A pleasant read and my favorite of the three, but not quite enough depth for me.

I’m home now and ambivalent about finishing the other two.

I think the main issue with the books is that I didn’t find myself in them.  I now have my own story to write of an American family’s travels in France.  A grand story of love and adventure that I will hold dear for the rest of my life. 

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Books, By Marianne Lonsdale, mothers, Paris, Provence, writing

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I pity the poor kids -- and mine is one -- who do not relish group activities.

We’ve come to think that happy participation in groups is normal and required behavior.

By the time most kids are toddlers, their everyday happiness depends on how they navigate in groups – daycare, Gymboree, music classes.

I remember leaving my howling three-year old son in a gymnastics class. I hovered in the hallway, dialing my husband on my cell phone for advice.

Should I leave him?

We decided he needed to learn to be on his own. If we didn’t start now, wouldn’t it just be tougher on him later?

My son is now a confident, gregarious and well-liked nine-year old. Teachers have called him a peacemaker in the classroom and on the playground. But he freezes if I try to leave him with a group of more than four kids.

One-on-one situations are no problem. Three to four kids is festive and exciting. Any more and he stays glued to me. We’ve walked out of birthday parties when he flat out refused to join in with a group of smiling classmates during gymnastic tumbles and turns. And after a three-day weekend or spring break, returning to his classroom brings tears to his eyes.

Teachers have physically restrained him so that I could dash for the car.

I thought he would outgrow this anxiety, but now I accept that this is part of who he is. We accept this in adults. It’s okay to say, “I just don’t’ like big parties” or “I do better in small groups,” but our current social structures don’t allow this trait in kids.

In fact, it’s no longer considered a trait – it’s considered a limitation.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale

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I was driving my seven-year-old son, Nick, and his friend, Ryan, home from our swim club. Ah, I loved the easy days of summer spent poolside. A little chit-chat with other moms, a short nap and time to flip through trashy magazines.

The only thing I didn’t like about summer was the incessant need to shave my legs and other more difficult to reach areas. As a woman of Italian heritage, daily summer shaving was another mark of summer. I’d never started fussing with my brows or upper lip – too much maintenance.

Ryan interrupted my hairy thoughts.

“Which of my moms do you think is more masculine?” he asked.

Odd question. But Ryan has two mothers and I guess he needed to work through a number of questions.

“I don’t think either of your moms is masculine,” I answered. Neither mom fit any butch stereotype.

“I know,” Ryan said. “But if you had to pick, which one would it be?”

“Cynthia,” I responded. Cynthia wasn’t masculine. Nor was she a girly girl. Neither was I.

“I’m probably more masculine than either of your moms,” I added. I’m trying to let Ryan know that his moms fit into the world of ALL mothers.

“Yeah,” Ryan responded. “Especially because you have that big, dark mustache.”

Out of the mouth of babes.

OK, -- time to add lip waxing to my hair removal activities.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale

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