Mother’s Day is just a few days away. The reminders are everywhere: TV, radio, social media.
I posed these questions to my Facebook friends: What is the best part of being a mother? And what is the hardest part? With the permission of those brave mothers, I’m sharing their responses here. Brace yourself. They’re not all easy to hear.
You want to write, so now what? What should you do to propel your writing career forward? Or to begin it?
Since I’ve really devoted some serious time and energy into my writing over the past year, I’ve been approached privately by several people who’ve confided in me that writing is something they’ve always wanted to do, felt like they should do, but just didn’t have the confidence or know where or how to begin. Although I’m certainly no expert, I can share what I’ve learned from published veteran authors, newly published authors, and those like me…aspiring authors.
Prom season is here and I read a recent statistic that the average cost of Prom is $900 per person. That’s nearly $2000 per couple! For Prom! I was stunned by this figure and when I was with a group of moms recently who expressed similar concern over the growing expenses surrounding Prom, I knew I wasn’t the only mom not fully in favor of such lavishness at these young ages. Now that my daughter is preparing for her own Prom, it’s given me pause to recollect the Proms of my high school days versus Prom of today.
Prom should be a fun night full of wonderful memories. But is it necessary to spend this amount of money and have such luxuries for Prom that rival a small wedding? What comprises this statistcal $900 per person?
Of course, there’s the dress and it’s perhaps the most important detail for us girls. When I went to my first prom as a high school sophomore, my frugal parents made me wear my sister’s bridesmaid’s dress she’d just worn for her best friend’s wedding. It wasn’t as heinous as it sounds…
We pulled in the driveway yesterday and I announced to my husband I was going to run to the mailbox and check the mail. He snickered a little, stopped at the end of the drive to let me out. But before I had the chance to open the door he asked if getting the mail was like Facebook to me: I liked checking it. I snickered back. If he was a bachelor, they’d stop delivering his mail because the box would eventually burst at the seams from all the mail he didn’t retrieve from the box. This is a small way in which we differ.
But I smiled internally at his question. I am the mailman’s daughter.