My daughter-in-law was doing a much better job in the "Christian" parenting department than I ever did -- that was painful to admit, but at the same time, it was so uplifting.
Like all parents, I know my children imagined me as a doting grandmother, happily playing with their children, unburdened by the daily demands of parenting. And it's true that one of the joys of having grandchildren is spending special time together. But over the years, I have developed a sense of impending dread about certain special games.
Today is my father's birthday. He would have turned 84 years old today, had he survived beyond the way-too-impossibly-young age of 68. Though it's closing in on two decades since I last shared my day with him, road-tripped with him, or swam with him out to that little sand bar in the Gulf of Mexico, I can still hear his voice.
The man I'm writing about is no longer with us. That is what dementia does; it steals the essence of the person. You lose your loved one before you lose them.
I'm always struck at the number of grandparents who turn up at my readings. During the discussion afterwards, they usually ask similar questions; 'I have a granddaughter with autism. What should I do when she flaps her hands?' or, 'Why do the tags on his sweater bother him so much?'
Throughout our own, sometimes-tumultuous relationship as adults, I still baked him butter rum cakes and hazelnut sacher brownies. Because I wanted him, always, to taste the love.
Being a grandmother is one of the most surprisingly delightful adventures I've ever experienced. Some moments are grander than others, though, moments such as these.
Although it may be painful to hear, it is possible that your kids are seeing what has become for you a blind spot with regard to your drinking.
All it takes is that one time when we leave our medicine on a nightstand, in a purse on the floor or on the kitchen counter in a pill box without a child resistant cap to put a curious child at risk.
by Tyler Mackenzie I was a junior on the varsity basketball team and my minutes were decreasing to the point where I was barely in the game. I wa...
Mr. Rogers, who would have turned 95 today, understood the magic of connecting generations. Linking the young and old benefits both generations and unifies our communities.
When we got to my mom's, I could tell she was uneasy. I went to hug her and she pulled back. Hesitated. She knew if we embraced, the tears would come. She motioned toward my daughter and shook her head, indicating she didn't want her to see that.
I consider myself Irish American. It upsets some people to hear terms like Irish or Italian American. They wish that we were all simply called Americans, without qualifiers. It's hard to argue with that spirit.
Many people ask me how, at age 78, I managed to accumulate such internet popularity. The web is a young people's game, they say. But I beg to differ. When you're my age, becoming a viral sensation is easy.
I have never spent a lot of time thinking about my uncle's orientation, even after my own son told me he is gay. It was only when people started asking me why I am so OK with my son's orientation that it occurred to me: I was raised this way. It's probably thanks to my grandmother.
My dad is still very much alive. Yet I find myself holding desperately to memories of how he once was. How we once were. I am grieving, but not in the "normal" sense.