We made it to the play in time to get seats for opening night - a borderline Biblical miracle. It was my daughter’s first time in drama club and they had practiced for months. I wanted this one night to be special for her - my talented, easy going, doesn’t-ask-for-a-lot daughter - because she deserved it, maybe more than most.
My usually sunny 13 year-old daughter, Sarah came home from school and said, "Mom, I need to tell you about something that happened today.” Clearly distressed, she was mangling the end of her pencil. She is a kid who usually floats through seventh grade with pixie-haired grace, easily avoiding its many, many social land mines. So I felt the earth shift a little under my feet, bracing for her story.
Last Sunday afternoon, I pried the electronics out of my children's hands so we could attend a Greek festival. Officially, we were going for cultural enlightenment. My covert agenda: rendezvous with good friends moussaka and tourlou tourlou (a Greek vegetable stew, like ratatouille. I have no idea why the name is repeated, but it sounds more fun when you say it twice.) No one even checked if we had seen “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” 1 and 2 - they just graciously ushered us in.
I joined an OB/GYN practice in the lush green mountains of North Carolina two years out of residency. There were legendary tales about a former partner, now retired. He had a cult following of patients. With his long gray ponytail, willingness to deliver babies under water and belief that epidurals were child abuse, he inspired strong emotions.
