Mother’s Day, Not the Hallmark Version.
May 12, 2025
When I look back on my experience with motherhood, and being a daughter, the first memories that come to mind are not of time in the kitchen learning to cook family favorites, flying kites, making collages or coaching kid’s soccer.
I cringe a little.
My own mom and I struggled; I was an ass from a very young age and gifted at running to my father over every interaction that didn’t go my way. She, I don’t think, knew what to do with this hot tempered, angry, young woman who challenged almost every word that came out of her mouth.
After I had my own kids, it took me years to become the mom I wanted to be. I still had a temper, was impatient, and as self involved as a twelve year old. I remember giving Katy a bath in the sink while she was a baby and checking the clock minute by minute to see how much longer until I could put her to bed and have a glass of wine.
Colin and I were close until we weren’t. Maybe his temper was passed down from me, maybe he responded to my distracted parenting style. When he turned thirteen or fourteen, the wars began. You can find details of our battles, edited for both of our sakes, on these pages. I broke into his social media, he’d chase me around the house screaming for me to give his phone back.
Oh my god, how did we survive the drama?
And we did. Somewhere along the way, with a little help from my mom and my kids, and maybe that enemy of all, time.
I love being my mother’s daughter. I can’t go a day without calling her. She might appreciate it if I didn’t call her so much. We talk about Wordle, birds, her cat, my dogs, the news, what’s for dinner, and what’s on tv. She tells me regularly how proud she is of me, as a mom, as a professional, as a writer. Her words lift me up because she doesn’t bestow praise to be polite. Never did. (I’m pretty sure when I was younger, that made me a little bit crazy.)
And my kids? Katy is not shy about letting me know I could have done better when she was young, but she also calls me for advice. She’s twenty-one, so I think I’m mostly redeemed. Like my mom, when she says something nice, I hold onto her words for days. People say she looks like me, but really, she may have my eyes, but she is calmer, kinder, and incredibly good at crafting, so I’m pretty sure I was just a vessel that fed her meals and took her to checkups.
There is Colin, my angry young man. He is twenty-four, crazy charming, and absolutely determined to every damn thing his own way. We went out to dinner the other night, me and Sheldon, Colin and Jasmin, and the four of us sat at the table for three hours, talking, laughing, and telling stories. About his life in Oregon. About the students at Mcphs. About our dog, Sophie, his second Christmas, and what it was like to watch him play basketball. I’d like to see him get to a gym and take it up again. He’ll find his way there, or not, but not because I suggested it. Even through our tough years, he always gave the best hugs, and he still does.
I wish wish wish I hadn’t taken so long to get to the place I am now. I wish I’d taken more videos, counted to ten before raising my voice, insisted on eating dinner together every night, (that tradition faded when sports, dance classes, and work, took over). We could have found a way.
It’s incredible, to look back on the tough times, and realize that somehow, it all worked out.
Yes, I get scolded by Katy if I offer to clean out her closet. And it takes Colin two or three days to call me back. But when they are nearby, they come home and they stay for a while. I’m sad to them leave, but grateful I don’t have to worry about what time they’ll be home.
I’d like to wish my Mom the very best Mother’s Day. I promise not to call you at 7 am anymore and to try remember which days you play bridge. I am just as proud of you as you are of me, if not more so. You are smart, strong, kind, and amazing. We made it to the good part together, isn’t it wonderful?
To everyone, Happy Mother’s Day.
Being a good parent, or a good kid, is hard as hell.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, which is a different space this year than last, or the year before. Next to my elbow is an empty water bottle, brought home from boot camp, a tiny miracle, (I’ve left so many behind.)
There is my daughter’s cat, Maurice, who is mad and has been mad since last September when Katy left for college. He is a three legged cat, yet surprising lethal with his single front paw. It is hard not to laugh when he attempts to strike with the limb that isn’t there. Katy says she misses him but she only Facetimes with Colin’s puppy, Nell.
There are bits from Sunday’s paper; my husband and I went to Foxwoods for the night. I still haven’t read the travel section, barely glanced at the magazine section and book reviews. I might not get a chance to pick it up; I will throw it into the recycling before I read it.
It is the beginning of April, and I’ve considered putting springtime placemats down on the scarred wood surface.
How many? Only Sheldon and I live here now and when we see people, mostly, we are out. Two placemats at a table for six might look sad.
Maybe I’ll buy a plant.
There is a box of Kleenex, which needs to go by the bed; it’s allergy season. Some deodorant Colin left behind, which smells like twenty three year old young man trying to impress the world. I’m sure he’s replaced it with something more expensive. I should bring it up to his room, but his room still feels strange; he only left a month ago.
There is the napkin holder, and a mismatched collection of polyester and cotton cloths, patterns and solids, ancient and shiny. There is a candle that sits on top of a trivet, I have tried to dig out the wick, it has only been lit once or twice..
There are my headphones, my shiny, pink Beats. I wear them on hikes and listen to them at a volume that makes my Iphone send me strongly worded texts about hearing loss.
Sometimes, the best, the only thing to do is to slide them over my ears. Find a playlist I haven’t heard in a million years, slip into whatever sneakers I find in the top of the bin, and step outside.. I only bring Nelly, my son’s puppy, because Sophie can’t keep up anymore.
And sometimes, it’s best to leave the headphones behind.
Not in front me, but in the next room, about ten feet away lies Sophie, The Sweetest of Dogs, on the rug. Tonight, I’d like to slip the leash on Sophie’s collar, and let her lead me wherever she wants to go. She moves, or she doesn’t. We might not make it half a block. She might decide to nap on the front stoop as soon we step down the stair. That’s fine too.
Just this morning, we heard from the vet. Sophie was diagnosed with kidney disease three years ago and the doctor told it was a miracle she’s still here.
By the end of week, Sophie won’t be in the next room anymore.
On Saturday morning, I will be sitting at this kitchen table, probably looking the Kleenex and the newspaper, the deodorant, and, maybe, Maurice. I will glance into the next room, to the space where Sophie sits right now.
I’m going to go sit down next to her.
Pandemic Halloween
November 1, 2020
On Facebook, members of my New England community have squabbled over whether we should cancel Halloween. People posted ways to make it safe, people argued there was no way to make it safe. People with small children asked for addresses were families were giving out candy, people with large children reminded each other the numbers are climbing. More than once, parents were strongly advised to stay home with teenagers to watch Hocus Pocus while sipping juice boxes. Or bake.
Katy, my seventeen year old, doesn’t like Hocus Pocus. She has a boyfriend, and about five friends she’s spent time with since June. So I negotiated with her to host a Halloween party outside with, (I don’t want to use the word pod,) her people. They decided to dress up as characters in “Among Us,” a game they play on their phones. The characters look like spacemen, and it is free. That is all I know.
Then there was snow. Our table was broken by a run away umbrella, our backyard was as muddy as spring. We thought about cancelling because we’d have to move it indoors, and we didn’t. These kids had been inside our house a week ago making their costumes.
Rachel made caramel apples and I burned my finger tasting, just like I did forty years ago. Her mom brought mountains of naked wings so that Jared, whose allergic to dairy products, could eat them- her primary ingredient in buffalo wings is butter and I wouldn’t let her leave until she promised to make some for me next week. The kids ate wings, mountains of nachos, pizza and brownies. Jared was happy we had coconut ice cream, because naked wings alone for dinner is kind of sad.
Raphael, Katy’s boyfriend, took a nap; he’s exhausted from rowing crew, zoom, and life. They watched movies, and had meaningful conversations when they weren’t arguing over whose playlist was best, and played Cards Against Humanity.
They made Lisa and I go Abby Park for dinner, so this is what Katy told me after everyone left at ten.
We were cleaning the kitchen, and “Blue Moon Revisited” by the Cowboy Junkies came on my radio station, 92.5 The River. I told Katy to stop what she was doing, (she wasn’t doing much, mostly offering moral support,) and just listen. We stood there, while the sad voice of Margot Timmons spilled out of the radio. When melody of the original “Blue Moon” crept in, Katy sighed. I loved that album in the eighties, and I tried to make at least twenty people listen to that song. Katy, on this pandemic Halloween, might have been the first one who did. She added it to her playlist, and felt a small tear.
Afterwards, we sat in the living room, and talked- about Raphael, her friends and first kisses, the baby she’s taking care of today, the kalimba she’s learning to play, daylight savings time, and whether she misses her brother, Colin. We talked about whether I miss Colin, and to be honest, that answer is different right now than it was last night.
It was not the spookiest of Halloweens. For the most part, we were with the people we are closest to, friends who do not surprise us, but know us well and love us anyway.
This year’s Halloween was a respite from the fear of 2020. Over the next few days, the goblins and gremlins will do their work.
Please vote.
There is a piece of me that is enjoying every moment at home with my daughter.
We watch tv together. Eat breakfast together. Workout together. She shows me a game she’s playing on her phone that is just like FarmVille, and gave me a tour of her “campsite.” (I pretended to be impressed, but wasn’t really impressed until I read AOC plays the same game. Now I’m a little impressed and kind of confused.)
I asked her to look at my LinkedIn profile, and listened to her feedback about potential career paths.
She talks to me about her relationship, takes great delight in hiding condiments when I don’t put them away, plays her flute at midnight, and bakes at one am.
I know this is abnormal behavior, but who, anywhere in the world is behaving normally right now?
How do I know if something is wrong?
I wake her up each morning, because schedule is important. We exercise, because movement combats depression. I’ve been lenient about time on her phone so she can stay connected with friends.
I do not have a clue what I’m doing, or what all of this is going to do to her.
I’ll be fine. I have some leads on new opportunities. Sophie keeps my feet warm, and Sheldon is building me a garden in the back yard.
But what kind of scars will this leave on my daughter, and will I ever stop missing my son?
This is the season of not knowing anything. I’m a mom, and the stuff that I know isn’t that helpful right now.
Should I give her more space, or insist she does her homework in the living room?
Do I check on her grades, or let her know I trust her to that chemistry homework takes precedence over carrot cake?
Do I say something about the fact she has macaroni every day for lunch, or do I stock up on Annie’s?
I’ll try not to give into buying a $300 Nintendo to make things better, but it’s tempting as hell.
Arrrghhhh.
Julie
Happy Mother’s Day
May 11, 2020
At this point, we’re all taking care of somebody, whether it’s your fish or your dog, your kids, your mom, or a friend, your heart, your waistline, or your health.
I couldn’t sleep this morning. Since I became a mom almost twenty years ago, this day feels like a low-key, brunchy, Christmas. I remember the handmade cards, the scary looking eggs, the Mother’s Day at First Parish that always began with me trying to get them awake and out the door by 7 am, dangling the words “it’s Mother’s Day” like a threat.
My seventeen year old Colin recently decided to quarantine with a friend, and Katy will probably sleep until eleven. That’s fine.
They couldn’t be more different.
Colin makes choices that make me mad, crazy, sad, and defeated. He values sneakers more than books, smells like weed most of the time, and eats so much takeout, he should buy his own landfill.
He is also funny, generous, and kind. He is my boy, though he has forced me to accept he is does not belong to me anymore, and never did.
He smiles and my heart falls out of my chest. He sounds worried, I want to gather him into my arms, and make it better. I can’t.
All I can do is love him. So I do that, even when I want to smack him in the head.
Katy has been the light of my quarantine, which was not what she wanted for her sixteenth birthday. Every day she teaches me patience, while I wait for her to finish her room, her homework, her conversation. She says she learned this from me, and I tell her I’ve earned the right to keep her waiting. She thinks that’s funny, and goes back to whatever she’s doing, but does it more slowly.
Katy was thrilled to put time limits on Facebook on my phone. She worries about the cost of everything, but vegetarian sausage, because she says that’s worth it.
She is careful, uses actual measuring spoons, understands chemistry, saves her money, and doesn’t care what people think. Except me, she cries when I snap at her.
I need to remember that even though she may seem like a remarkably mature thirty-five year old, a mother’s words have the power to sting like they did when you were six and in trouble for eating all the Oreos.
She listens when I speak, as long as it’s not too early, and I’m surprised and thrilled by this. (If I’m giving the lecture about being on time, or clean clothes, or dirty clothes, she pretends to listen, if she’s feeling kind).
Katy reminds me a lot of my mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
You tell me often how proud you are of me, and between you and me, I’m a bit of mess.
I’m still working out what I want to be when I grow up, my daughter acts like the parent half the time, my cabinets are more disorganized than Trump’s, and I know absolutely nothing about retirement plans. (I do have a good recipe for chicken thighs with artichoke hearts for the NYTimes I’ll send over later.)
If you say I’m amazing, I must be. You’ll always be the smartest person in the room, (with Katy right behind you.)
I love you,
Julie
Afternoon of Day One Corona Virus Milton Massachusetts
March 21, 2020
Afternoon of Day One-
A sock project created havoc in our schedule, but I can say with confidence, our socks all match.
Swaddled in layers, with a lunch bag of hand sanitizer, lysterine, and wipes, we went back over the beach and then the Marina.
Tonight, there are vegetables roasting in the oven, for vegetarian enchiladas. I’m washing my walls, and waiting to call my mom for the third time. I’m hoping Colin will call, and really hoping he’ll talk to me about more than whether or not I’ll wash his sneakers. I will wash his sneakers, but I like to keep him guessing.
I want to turn this time for reflection into something more than the opportunity to try out new mindfulness apps, more than frantic walks down the beach, dragging Sophie, who has had enough walks for the next six weeks, and field trips to the grocery store for honey and chicken.
I want to find a way to slow down, to settle in to our space and the state of things. It is time to be still.
Still is hard for me.
I think still is hard for all of us.
That is why I will start the day again tomorrow with a meditation.
I will put my phone away by 8 pm.
I will take Sophie around the block, and hike up a mountain.
I will recognize these are guidelines, and that things change.
I will recognize that when one is told by the universe to slow the #$$%^^ down, one gently applies the brakes.
There’s time to practice.
The Opposite of Procrastination (a Sunday night experiment)
March 27, 2017
It all started with church,
This idea of getting ready for Monday-
To try on a different approach
To first light morning chaos.
I’d become one of those people
Who write hymns to their crockpots and can tell you
Which days the children
Need gym clothes.
(I am also a person who knows
Anything
Can happen.
Just because I’ve located
My stockings and checked them for tears
Does not mean I believe
I have control
Over tomorrow
Or anything else,
For that matter.)
I head to the gym for
A swim, some sweat,
and some space
To reach and drop
Stretch and bend.
I think about summer.
Maybe next Sunday,
I’ll schedule a pedicure
to get ready for spring
Or my next time at yoga.
At least once a week
I find myself surrounded
By well groomed women
In two tone leggings
Doing down facing dog.
In position, I’m faced with
Feet that scream neglect
Even louder than my kids
When I suggest last week’s
Corned beef and cabbage for dinner.
This evening-
One extra load, one last check with each kid
Do you need pencils?
Do you need a ride?
Tell me now because
You are old enough to know
I have no idea
When your recital will be, except that it will probably happen between now
and the first week of May.
Let me know whether your first game is at home or away.
Tell me, or text me,
Then tell me, or text me again.
I don’t care you don’t want me to be there.
I’ll put on sunglasses,
Wear the other team’s colors
and probably show up twenty minutes
After it’s over.
Coffee is measured,
Fruit is sliced,
Clothes selected, inspected,
Heels lean in the hallway.
Lunch is tucked inside tupperware,
This is good.
It won’t go bad
When I forget it tomorrow.
The world won’t come to an end.
(I know this because
I’ve devoted most of my life
doing everything I can to avoid
getting ready for anything
and so far… well, look outside.
You know what i’m saying?)
I spent an hour an a half doing
Everything I do every morning
in about twenty minutes.
And I still haven’t brushed my damned teeth.
or had a drink
or read the Sunday paper.
I’m ready for Monday
Though I’m carrying a bit of a grudge.
I like now,
Sunday night,
the moments before the alarm.
I like now.
.
Are you ready for some Football?
October 24, 2015
Big, big football game today.
As a huge fan, well, actually a mom of a boy that plays for the Junior Varsity team, I am compelled to announce, loudly, and with vigor-
Go, Wildcats!!!!!
Crush the Wellesley, um, whatever creature or thing they are called.
Crush the Wellesley Varsity football team!!!!
While I’m on the subject, Crush the Wellesley Junior Varsity team on Monday too!
Boys get hurt in some games, and of course I don’t wish that on anyone, even on one of those Wellesley people.
I really hope those Wellesley players aren’t planning on crushing, maiming or in any literal way, injuring, any of the Milton Wildcats.
FYI- our football team is not, in fact made up of actual Wildcats, though there are times in the morning that my son is quite surly and his behavior is that of animal raised in the woods.
I’d also like to make it clear- I wouldn’t be in favor of doing any harm to actual wild cats, real ones or surly creatures at the breakfast table. I like cats, I have two cats. Even wild cats are kind of cute, unless they have eaten one your pets but that might just be an urban myth.
Wildcats, play really, really well today.
Winning would be really nice, but know I support each and every one of you. Even if you suck.
Which you totally don’t. You guys are football magic.
Unless the use of the word magic offends you.
You’re really, really good!
Go, Wildcats!!!!!
Play better than the Wellesley team!
(But don’t be smug about it.)
Remember to have fun because everyone knows that’s all that matters.
Love,
From a woman without a clue.
MY Job At Quincy College
August 15, 2015
It’s been a Long Week in my life.
Hours at work have been intense, I work for Quincy College and a large part of my job is working to help potential students become students.
This involves many conversations, involving almost every single candidate. There are conversations with the student, some parents chime in. I have Financial Aid on speed dial – “He hasn’t turned in his Financial Aid information form? Really?”
Admissions- “Are you sure you haven’t gotten her transcript? Can I put her thru to you?” Followed closely by the Registrar’s Office, the Business Office, the Deans, the Advisors- at the end of the week, I’ve talked a lot.
Occasionally I sit down with someone and they tell me about what their plans are, about which classes they’ll be taking, even about what they want to be when they grow up.
When a student leans forward, and starts to talk to me, I lean back and listen.
I don’t answer the phone. I ignore my son’s texts. I stop wondering what they will be serving upstairs for Karen’s Birthday or Michael’s going away.
I need this time with these people- kids, baby boomers, grandparents, unwed mothers, recovering addicts, struggling sons, international students from Nepal, Bulgaria, France, Haiti.
I need time with the people that come to me for help, I need to hear their stories so that I can remember why helping them is the best job I’ve ever had.
julierichmond 