MORE FROM HUFFPOST
MORE FROM HUFFPOST
fathers and daughters
Should we not take seriously the feelings of mature women who feel at best disappointed, and at worst betrayed by their "Dads" who supported -- voted for -- the man these daughters feel stands for everything vile, wrong and disgusting when it comes to women and minorities?
Given the limited number of years he has left, I would like to think my father would open the conversation up about LGBT issues, and become as involved in our community as he is with the Irish one.
While I'm on record as saying "it gets better" as your kids grow up, it also gets more complicated to parent them and to know if you are making the correct-est decisions yourself.
My father's eyes are starting to flicker and soon he's breathing deeply again. The gurgle is from a lifetime of nicotine, the damage becoming obvious as he rounds the bend toward 90 years of age. He's asleep once more and I can only hope he's waltzing with Julie, or Audrey, or perhaps my mother.
WHAT'S HAPPENING
WHAT'S HAPPENING
Memorizing "Rosalita" happened over time: first a few trips, then a few days, then weeks, then years, all riding passenger side by my dad as he drove me from lacrosse games to choir practices, teaching me most everything I needed to know about the ups and downs of life through disc after disc of rock and roll.
This isn't the essay about dropping off my daughter at college. This is the essay about dreading the essay about dropping off my daughter at college.
We hugged hard, seemingly too hard for her little ribs, but as I began to let up she squeezed even harder. It was painful, but because the separation was usually just a few days, bearable. She sat back down on the couch.
When a mother first learns that she is pregnant, there is a flurry of emotions. And learning that she is having a girl? What a thrill! There's nothing quite like the bond between a mother and her daughter. But sometimes anxiety sets in or self-doubt arises: How will I know how to take care of her? Raise her? Protect her?
My 24-year-old daughter and a friend are somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway, perhaps at a campground in Great Smokey National Park. I envision the two young Sarah Lawrence film school graduates barricaded behind the Subaru wagon they bought for their road trip, pepper spray and tasers at the ready.
