The year I turned 50, I began ballet. I hadn’t planned it, hadn’t decided, “Landmark age! Do something new!” My classes evolved, as does so much of what I do, from one of my children’s activities. Ballet is most definitely not in my background. Or anything else athletic.
What mother doesn’t immediately halt whatever she’s doing at those words, especially when the child is a son who hasn’t requested all that much mom-talk in recent years?
I shake dishwater from my hands and follow my 21-year-old out of the kitchen, out of earshot (his request) of his teen sister. Something up with his girlfriend, maybe, or second thoughts about the heavy academic load he’s scheduled for his junior year? As I settle cross-legged onto the couch, I’m feeling pretty good about my parenting skills: My independent college son still wants my attention, my obviously stellar advice!