*Similar to but not the same as a parsnipIn the six years since my divorce, I have been lucky to have my grown daughters live with me, albeit intermittently.I know parents who can’t wait until their kids are gone and lament the economic conditions that have altered this natural progression. I enjoyed my occasional time alone, but I’ve also come to see their return as a second chance. I have been given the opportunity to be a different type of parent to them, as one adult to another. I have been given the chance to make amends.Children of divorce carry scars regardless of the circumstances. All that they know and depend on is turned upside down before it is set right, if it is ever set right. Research bears this out.My kids had difficulties of all sorts following my separation and divorce. Some of those bumps may have been normal for their age and unrelated to divorce, but being the type of mother I am, I assume they would not have had these problems had they come from an intact family that looked Norman Rockwell-ian. I know NR families. I am deeply envious of their intactness, their solid parenting, and the foundation it gives the kids going forward in life. Many kids aren’t that lucky. In any case, our lives were complex and my daughters did not get the benefit of my full attention during several difficult years.For us, the do-over meant that they moved home after college and after working for a few years because they’d decided to go to graduate school and needed some prerequisites prior to application. They moved in with me and went back to school.My older daughter returned first, having been on her own for several years, and we slowly moved from the place of me parenting her as I had during her high school and college years—that is to say, gingerly, with fear and extreme caution on my part—to a completely different relationship. For one thing, we shared responsibility for our elderly dog. Olga grew old before our eyes, and Liz began to feel an adult type of love and responsibility for her. For another thing, she watched as I cared for my own mother, who slowly slipped deeper and deeper into dementia. But our living arrangement included a meaningful series of meals together, when we discussed the past, the present, the future. We discussed politics, religion, current events, relationships with men and women and children. We argued. We hurt each other’s feelings. We learned to apologize before going to bed at night. We saved our best stories for each other and laughed together. I watched her struggle through the science classes required for pre-med, then master them, then get terrific grades, and get accepted into several medical schools. I watched her confidence grow. I watched her blossom.When Jocelyn called to say she wanted to come home, my door was open. She is a different person than Liz, and my parenting requires different techniques. But the same process is at play and I marvel at her growth in a year’s time. What is interesting is not only that they’re adults now, but I’m more of a grown up than I was ten years ago. Having gone through the past decade made me more patient and considerate. I am fortunate to have had this opportunity with my kids, to be present for them, to have the emotional energy to expend, to have the room physically to house them, and to have a second chance to be a mother at this point in their lives. As much as I give them, they give me more.They want me to teach them how to cook, of course, but enough already. I’m tired of cooking. I’m even tired of eating. But I am willing to direct traffic in the kitchen, and impart the wisdom of my cooking past. I learned a lot from their grandmothers in the same way—insights casually shared across a table or over a stove. It feels now like a new manner of parenting but I suspect it is a continuation of something very old. And I’m lucky to be part of it.

From 2002 until 2020, I lived in a vintage condominium building in Chicago. The building is U-shaped, and there is a large outdoor courtyard in the middle of the U, complete with tables and chairs and gas grills. To utilize the courtyard, you take the elevator to the first floor in order to grill and eat, and as a result you frequently end up socializing with your neighbors.It has taken years for me to learn to be neighborly, and I'm still not good at it. I have previously admitted to being an introvert, but I'm incredibly shy as well. So in order for me to enjoy summer meals outdoors I must be friendly and make small talk with the people in my building (which is no easy thing), or else drag my kids along, or take the elevator down, cook the food, then take it upstairs to eat it. The final option negates the benefits of having any outdoor space but it is the one I choose most often. My kids are busy, on different time schedules, and often practicing vegetarians so they rarely care about grilled food. Nor do they care about being neighborly, because they’re kids. But even as kids, their people skills eclipse my own.When my mother died, in 2010, I inherited a modest amount of money and promptly invested it. But the stock market volatility scared me and mortgage rates remained historically low. And after a dozen years in high rise living, I realized that I'd grown claustrophobic. Each morning I hung my head out of the bathroom window, nine stories up, and sucked in fresh air. I decided to buy a weekend house.I bought the second house I saw. This sounds crazier than it actually was. I had met the people who owned the house. It came recommended by their decorator and mutual friends. It is a 1945 Cape Cod, renovated, with a screened porch, a terrific kitchen, and beach rights. I brought along a friend who did home inspections. He looked it over very carefully and declared it had very few issues. So I bought it.Luckily, the sellers left a lot furniture so we had a sofa, chairs, beds to sleep on, even a TV to watch; the kids and I came whenever we could—when I wasn’t working or traveling. They were thrilled to have a new house too. It seemed odd to me, since they’re adult women. But home is still where Mom is, I guess. I bought us all warm robes and slippers for Christmas. Our dog Olga made the trip with us too, but had trouble with the car rides and wood floors. Her legs gave out, so we put her bowl on a carpet, and were glad we had this time with her at our new home.But today I experienced the wonder of early spring. I have daffodils in my new yard. There are blooms on the pachysandra, and crocuses poking up along the driveway. This year the warm sunny March weather has made everyone in the North a little uncomfortable. We’re glad for the reprieve from the harshness of our usual winters, for the length of them, for the relentless grayness of them. At the same time, it ain’t normal.As the trees bud, and the flowers bloom, we worry they will be frozen again, as will we. And their full glory will be lost in our greed for an early spring. So it’s weird, but wonderful anyway.Gardening, for me anyway, is therapeutic. It is like exercise without the workout clothes and the feeling of self-indulgence, that there’s something more important I should be doing. It is going outdoors with purpose. It is being part of the earth in the smallest possible way. It allows me to tidy without anyone nagging me. It allows me to not be tidy because, who can control nature in the end? It is infinitely satisfying. It is gratification without exceptional delays.This weekend I had my first real gardening experience in years, in a yard of my own, that I would be able to tend and plant and grow for years to come. I learned where the hose outlets were, found a gas outlet for a gas grill, realized I have a sprinkler system and found the controls. I bought a rake, gloves, and clippers to start. I am good to go.

I have begun the process of promoting my first book, Good in a Crisis. This process does not come naturally to me. I am not a natural salesperson.In college, I sold nylons at Neiman Marcus. Luckily, hosiery does not require a great deal of finesse. Most women know exactly what they want, and I was capable of providing them with their size and brand. They did not need my salesmanship.In the parlance of the Meyers Briggs, I am what is known as an INTJ. Introverted, intuitive, thinker, judger. Not a natural for a book tour, I am more comfortable at home, alone and writing, than in a roomful of strangers shaking hands and selling myself.I gave my first radio interview on Valentine’s Day 2012. Milt Rosenberg invited me onto his show on WGN, 720 AM. The show aired from 11PM until midnight. It did not help that I am a morning person. I should have napped before going on the air, I should have read my book, I should have read some Freud, or Jung, or even listened to old episodes of Dr. Ruth. Instead I played Bedazzled and had no idea what I was getting into. I had watched and listened to some of his interviews. But even if I’d prepared, I would not have been prepared.My book is not Valentine material. No Cupid’s arrows shoot forth from my prose. On the contrary, reading my book may inspire a life of solitude, or perhaps it more accurately reflects a life of solitude. It might promote chastity, or increase enrollment at convents and seminaries. At best, the book presents the underbelly of dating in middle age.Milt was a charming host, a practiced interviewer, and is a professional psychologist by training. Unlike the marketing people for the publisher, he saw straight through the humorist in me to the serious writer beneath, and that was the person that interested him. He also tried to fix me up. On the air. I’m afraid I came off as inarticulate (which I am not usually, but can be under pressure), slow (ditto), boring (yup), and not the sharp-tongued, scary person who wrote the insightful book he really seemed to like. I wish I could have a do-over.The best part about his interview, from my standpoint, was that he—unlike the marketing materials and many of the reviews—got the point that loss and a near-death experience are life-changers that make people (like me) act out, prevent them from seeing their obvious patterns of behavior, cause them to grasp for help from the wrong things and the wrong people. He got it straight off. I liked that about him. I’m not certain that radio is the proper medium to get that point across, or that the podcast gave any indication of his insight, but he is excellent at what he does. Our time together was not a laugh-fest.I do know this: I was a pathetic interviewee. And I was totally unprepared to answer the call-in questions.But I did get a couple of nice emails from men who checked out my website, bought the book, read it, and sent me pictures of themselves. Despite my bumbling inarticulateness, Milt had managed to make me sound datable, albeit death-obsessed. Which had nothing to do with the reason I went on his show, but anyway. As he quoted both Freud and Jung to me and spoke French on the phone, I found myself wishing that Milt himself were thirty years younger. And then he took his teeth out, and I got over it.

I have prepublication jitters. Despite decent reviews and events going in the right general direction, I am anxious. The publicity makes me anxious; even good reviews make me anxious.I am having nightmares for the first time in years. I never have nightmares. Now I am dreaming about giant women. Huge women who ask me to do their hair. I have to stand on a chair to accommodate them. One has black tresses that stick straight out from the back of her head with royal blue highlights, geometrically placed along the bottom. I comb the blue parts. Another asks if I will help in the placement of a giant scarf. I wrap the colorful schmatta around her head several times, nearly losing my balance on the chair.Another night I dream I am alone with a nice man, and we are talking in front of a fireplace. Suddenly the home is invaded by a horde of large women, all of whom are extremely tall except for one. The short one is a blond pygmy with bad breath who whispers vile things about me, all of which are true. I pick her up and smack her against the furniture. Then I hold her at eye level; she continues her vituperative litany in a deadly calm voice. I nearly faint from the halitosis.After a couple of days, I think: giant women. Publication.Amazons? Ok. I get that.But what’s the deal with the pygmy?