My momentary attack of brave (and hoping it stays)

I had a sudden attack of brave last week. The day I turned…six oh. (That’s much easier to type.) It’s left me now, that brave person who decided to face real life and not pretend. The me that wondered how will I do this in a way that conquers my fear, the me that had an ounce of determination to just do it! I posted this on Instagram: Today, not...

If it’s her party, why am I crying?

The notification stares at me as though the letters are glowing bold. They are burning through my heart and I have given way to guilt. “Mom is turning 75 years old…..let’s shower her with cards” It doesn’t matter I didn’t realize this was her 75th. (I always have to do the math to figure out how old she is.) Or that by the time my sister posted this on Facebook...

We had a party

60. Sixty. 6-0 All of those numbers don’t fit “handsome” as a friend calls my husband. I think I’ll use that, Lou. I rather like it 😉 On Sunday we celebrated his 60th birthday. It still sounds foreign. As though it’s describing another. An old person. Not this man. He has us well fooled. Big parties aren’t something I do well. It was my sister-in-law who prompted me to have...