The Giver

The Giver

Eleven years old is the new thirteen. They are all pubescent and adolescent and so so over you. Mothering the eleven-year-old is all about being there but acting like you're not. You gotta be there to say it's enough computer time. You gotta remind them to eat a snack. You gotta tell them to put deodorant on. You have to force them to bathe. And then you slink off into your own world where you won't embarrass them too much until you plan family time and feel ready to ride their eleven-year-old emotional roller coaster. It's always worth it to me. Stacking the deck by feeding, watering and being sure he's not exhausted works better. But still, it's a crap shoot. Eleven years old also seems to be about me no longer getting to read my own books. I love, eat up, cherish the time we still share where I read books to him at night. I'm talking about my own reading...
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Anne Lamott is a Better Mother Than Me

Yes, yes. Than I. WhatEVER. Yesterday, I read to my son excerpts from an Anne Lamott post on Mother's Day: "I did not raise my son, Sam, to celebrate Mother’s Day. I didn’t want him to feel some obligation to buy me pricey lunches or flowers, some annual display of gratitude that you have to grit your teeth and endure. Perhaps Mother’s Day will come to mean something to me as I grow even dottier in my dotage, and I will find myself bitter and distressed when Sam dutifully ignores the holiday." I shared with my son how I really didn't want him to ever feel guilt-ed into a Mother's Day either. (I remember one year when I had nothing for my mother and she didn't let me off the hook. I felt so awful and went to 7-11 and bought her some book. It wasn't born from within me. Just guilt and obligation). The first painful irony was that literally, as...
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