I’ve been busy over at Scottsdale Moms Blog lately. I’m now officially Managing Editor, which means it’s my fault if our content is lame or full of typos. I love our team of contributors, our community of followers, and the fact that I get to learn on the job. I’m still writing twice a month […]
As promised, the guy in the big truck comes. He waves at us from his high station. Sometimes he honks. We watch the enormous robot claw arm hug the trash can, lift it over the open bed of the truck and dump in a week’s worth of life’s excess: dirty diapers, fruit snacks wrappers, lollipop sticks, paper towels soaked in spilled milk, tissues wet with tears and snot.
“If what I say resonates with you, it is merely because we are both branches of the same tree.” ― W. B. Yeats
I studied them, marveling at their hair, their shoes, their foreignness. I am too far removed from adolescence now to identify with them; I remember being there, but the memories seem to be of someone else, equally foreign, not of the person whose purse now holds hand sanitizer and Goldfish crackers and plastic dinosaurs. But neither can I identify with their mothers; nearly a decade stands between me and the day I will become the mother of a teenager.