My poor mother. She deserves to be recognized on Mother’s Day for surviving nine kids. I know I barely did. As the youngest, I was a constant source of amusement for all eight, who thought picking on the “baby” was a good time.
Instead of looking ahead to the New Year and making promises that I probably can’t keep, I’m going to reflect with gratitude on all the good things that came out of the past year – and be glad I’m being given another year, and another chance, to do it all over again.
There’s always one kid in the crowd. That precocious little one who’s not afraid to announce – loudly – that your hair looks funny, or that you have a mustache, or hairy legs, or that your arms wobble when you wave.
Chances are, you’ve received one of those e-mails asking you to fill in all kinds of deep, dark secrets about yourself. Like your favorite flower or your middle name. And chances are, you’ve deleted them. So have I.
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