I’m amazed by this but delighted to be the RFT’s (that’s in St. Louis, y’all) pick for Local Blog O’the Week.
Tell your friends! I’m telling mine . . .
I’m amazed by this but delighted to be the RFT’s (that’s in St. Louis, y’all) pick for Local Blog O’the Week.
Tell your friends! I’m telling mine . . .
Disclaimer: Badger did it first.
Me:

Uh, so not me:

Me:

and later:

Not me:
Me:
Not me:

Me:

No way:

Me:

Not me:

Me (or, who will play me in “the movie”):
Mmmmmmmmmno:

If you’re super groovy (like me) and reading this via an aggregator, skip over to www.stlworkingmom.com and check out my new header, compliments of Elemental Creative, my buddy Shawn and his wildly creative brain.
Frequent readers, playing the STL Working Mom at-home game, will recall my dental woes. I wrote about my childhood dentist and the parade of professionals that followed, most falling short of the mark. Imagine my surprise and delight yesterday when I opened this e-mail:
Marijean-
17 years ago today you entered the world and cried. Who could blame you, as you looked up and realized these teenagers staring at you, wide-eyed and apprehensive, were your parents?
You’ve stuck it out with us, though, making it through every milestone as we stood back and thought, wow, we’ve managed to keep him alive another year. This milestone seems more significant than most as you’re practically a grownup (that being defined by the age at which we took responsibility for your life.)
What’s up with you? This year between 16 and 17 has been amazing. You’ve gotten haircuts; albeit irregularly, but hair! cuts! Your grades are what not just you would call good. They’re actually good. You have held your first job now for three whole months. You drive; even more carefully than I do. I totally trust you to drive, cook and manage your own schedule. What is the deal? From everything I’ve heard, having a teenager is not supposed to be like this. Dude, you’re acting like you’re in your thirties.
Not that I’m complaining . . . no. In fact, you’re transitioning into not just my son, but a friend. Your sense of humor (sick, dark, caustic) makes my day. I love the chattiness that kicks in only after 10pm or when you’re overtired. I love your predictable sense of style (jeans, tee shirt, sneakers) and the way you’ve become the “tee shirt guy” at school. I love that I can still make you laugh till your stomach hurts.
Your love for and commitment to music gives me such pride. I’m so glad you’ve found something that gives you joy.
Happy birthday, bud. I hope your day is “all right.”
Much love,
Mom