The weight was almost unmanageable.   When I was young my mother owned a manual typewriter, all metal and heft. It came in a box like a suitcase with a latch and plastic handle, and I was certain it weighed more than I did.  The machine itself was cream and gray with seafoam-green accents straight out of the 1960s. It smelled of ink and machine oil. Trapezoid keytops bore letters in a san-serif font on heavy plastic, and there was no number 1 - my mom explained the lowercase L doubled for the number. The keybasket where all the typebars come together was embossed with the silver words "De Luxe" atop a wash of seafoam.  The keys didn't yield like computer keyboards nowadays - back then if I wanted to communicate I had to put effort behind it, jam my point home with just my index fingers. On that machine my mom taught me my first typed sentence, about the goings-on of a quick red fox and a lazy brown dog.  I didn't have much else to write about in elementary school. I b

Sweet girl of mine with ocean eyes and alabaster skin, you ask me how to put on makeup. What can I tell you that won't skew your fragile self-perception? Which words won't lead you to believe women are born imperfect and need improvement? You look to me for lessons on beauty and poise. Only 5 years old, you are my daily shadow but I am in shadow of you. You are already flawless - kinder and wiser than many adults I know. I hesitate to teach you how to cover up or alter yourself. So I will tell you instead what I've learned about makeup. Your foundation should be comprised of jojoba seed oil, minerals, the ideas you value most, aloe, zinc oxide, and all the places you've been. Spread it evenly across your life with your fingertips, taking care to fill any shadows of doubt. You are enough. You will think you need concealer to cover blemishes, but you'll be wrong. Never hide the line of three freckles that dot your chin or the small white scar between your eyebrows. Th

"Do we have to pay for water?" my daughter asked last week as she played with Dolphin Magic Barbie and Jet Ski Stacie in the bath.  She's 7, and still discovering the where's and why's of how things work in our household. Recently we'd told her not to leave the garden hose running, because it wastes both water and money.  I explained that yes, we pay a utility company to send clean water through our pipes and into the tubs, faucets, and hoses.  "If you ever need money to pay for water, you can take some of my money," she offered.  As I looked into the face of this sweet girl I'm raising, I was moved by her open-hearted generosity, unselfishness, and willingness to help. And I knew exactly what not to say.  Barbie's Bathtub Adventures Growing up, my family frequently struggled to pay the bills . I remember around age 8 repeating to my Girl Scouts leader that we had an "outstanding Visa bill" even though I had no idea what that meant.

Last month my family spent six beautiful days on vacation near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  Someday I'd like to take the kids to Charleston for its history, both important and terrible. Prior to the Civil War, Charleston (a 90-minute drive from Myrtle) was the capital of the slave-trade industry, with as many as 40 percent of all enslaved Africans arriving at the New World through its port. It's essential to me that my children learn the unvarnished truth about this darkness in our national history, so they can better understand America as a whole.  But not yet. At 7 and 10, they're still too young to understand and appreciate seeing the historical artifacts of slavery in person. Rather than being educational, I think Charleston's stories would be deeply upsetting to them. So we stuck to the greater Myrtle Beach area on this trip.    It's a two-day, 700-mile drive to get there, so by the time we arrived at the resort my children were eager to run, make lots of noi

We're on the downhill side of parenting.  Yesterday, my husband pointed out that we have more years behind us than in front of us when it comes to having our firstborn at home.  At age 10, there are 8 years left until he (fingers crossed) launches into the next stage of life - college, a fulfilling job, or some other as-yet-unforeseen step. Eight Christmases, eight birthdays, eight summers. And then suddenly, adulthood.  Social media regularly reminds me how small he once was, in a time I only hazily remember. Plenty of moms will tell you with sorrow in their throats how they miss those baby and toddler and preschooler ages.  I have mixed feelings. One side of my heart aches at how quickly my son is growing up, every day becoming more his own person and less mine.  But the other half of my heart knows I wouldn't relive those years even on a dare. They were a monumental struggle for me, a mountain I wasn't sure I would survive climbing. Many times I was lost in the blizzard

Good evening, DHS alumni, and happy 25th high school non-reunion. Tonight we are not standing under balloon arches, not reliving the "Around the World in One Night" senior prom, not ambling through the lower commons with wonder that we made it out of here alive.  Of course we're not discussing what didn't happen at the aborted 10-year reunion, when too few of us were interested in coming home - or too many of us never left. We're not discussing whether social media or this town, small and rural and cliquish even then, was the death of that get-together. Both can be black holes if you're not paying attention. I'm enjoying not lingering by the punch bowl and not talking about the eerie red eye of the purple and white bronco on the wall - the eye which, after a football win, glowed on the horse head that lacked any curves just like me. I'm not telling you these are real and they're fabulous. It's a pleasure not to walk down the 100 Hall, the 200 H

When he first mentioned wanting to perform at the school's annual talent show this year, I didn't think he was very serious. So I let it pass.  He had brought it up last year, too. But because the only talent he could think to show off was his impressive prowess at escaping Endermen and destroying Creepers in Minecraft, he was merely a spectator that year.  About a week after first talking about it, my fourth-grade son again mentioned his plans to try out for the show. This time I needed to listen.  He said he wanted to sing as his talent. In the last few months, my first-born has discovered YouTube music videos specific to his interests in video games. It turns out there are playlists full of Linkin Park and Evanescence songs set to Minecraft play, as well as songs written specifically for the weird characters of Rainbow Friends in Roblox. The one for Purple is his favorite. He wanted to sing one of those songs, one that had words appropriate for school.  But, until he stumble

This week, the powers that be announced Bed Bath & Beyond is closing for good. The news wasn't surprising, but I still feel disappointment. It was a store for seminal changes in life. Going to college, moving into your first apartment or home, getting married, getting divorced - any situation that required starting anew.  With its closing, a few generations of consumers lose a store closely tied to our milestones and memories. We're left with only the part that is Beyond. BBB was often the go-to place for buying (or registering to get gifts of) towels, storage options, organization, bedding, small appliances, dishes, cookware, and more. With the help of his mom, my husband bought several cart-loads of items there when he purchased his first home just before we met. We registered there for wedding gifts, most of which we still use 15 years later.   Local columnist and author Connie Schultz recently  shared a poignant story of shopping at BBB after a divorce. Shortly before

All you can do is not think about it. Don't picture your child hearing loud bangs like the biggest door slamming. Don't imagine the confusion clouding his face, quickly replaced by the understanding that he's in danger. Don't share the panic he feels when he thinks he's forgotten the active shooter drills he practiced , those terrifying moments when adults pretend that someone has arrived to hurt them even though adults are supposed to keep them safe. photo by Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP Don't visualize his eyes getting wide with fear and his sweet face draining of color as his teacher gathers the children into a knot and tells them to go go go silently, quickly, to their safe space, wherever that is. Don't think of the black tip of a long gun bobbing as it's carried down the hall past the cafeteria with its small seats, past the trophy case full of pride, past your child's classroom door.  Try not to imagine your child wetting her pants in s

"Some kids just need it," the principal told me, with a look on her face that said she understood that need. We were standing in a doorway during the school open house, talking about some of the things the school offers that are so beneficial for my children.  One of those things is giving students the choice to have "quiet lunch" - meal time with just a few other students in a classroom, away from the cavernous cafeteria-slash-auditorium that teems with boisterous students. It's was a new program this fall, and both of my kids joined in.  Over the last five years, my son has complained many times about how loud the cafeteria can get. So loud that he has to yell to be heard, so loud that the principal has walked down from her office to deliver admonitions and a warning glare. Like his mother, my son finds it overwhelming and distressing to be in noisy or chaotic places for too long; it was no surprise to me when he said he signed up to have "quiet lunch&quo

Alone with me in the car, my 7-year-old daughter had a confession to make.  "Sometimes I think my brother is Mr. Grumpy Pants," she said.   "I think you're right," I told her. "Sometimes he is Mr. Grumpy Pants. And you know what? I think he gets that from me."  My sweet girl was quick to point out that I am never a Grumpy Pants, and I am in fact the Best Mom in the Whole Entire World.  While I deeply appreciate her adoration, it's come to my attention that after nearly a decade of parenting, I am less patient, more tired, more prone to raising my voice, and moodier than I was before having children. Motherhood has made a lot of my bad qualities worse.  Unfortunately, I think my son has inherited almost all of those bad qualities.  Some days being his mother is as unpleasant as listening to a recording of my own voice set on repeat. The same parts of myself that I get sick of, I also have to manage in him. I know where it comes from, but that doesn&