There's Something Wrong With A Mother Who

It Seemed Rather Incongruous That In A Society Of Super Sophisticated Communication, We Often Suffer From A Shortage Of Listeners.

Mothers Are Not The Nameless, Faceless Stereotypes Who Appear Once A Year On A Greeting Card With Their Virtues Set To Prose, But Women Who Have Been Dealt A Hand For Life And Play Each Card One At A Time The Best Way They Know How. No Mother Is All Good Or All Bad, All Laughing Or All Serious, All Loving Or All Angry. Ambivalence Rushes Through Their Veins.

When Mothers Talk About The Depression Of The Empty Nest, They're Not Mourning The Passing Of All Those Wet Towels On The Floor, Or The Music That Numbs Your Teeth, Or Even The Bottle Of Capless Shampoo Dribbling Down The Shower Drain. They're Upset Because They've Gone From Supervisor Of A Child's Life To A Spectator. It's Like Being The Vice President Of The United States.

For The First Two Years Of A Child's Life, We Spend Every Waking Hour Tryibg To Get The Child To Communicate. Then We Spend The Rest Of Our Lives Trying To Figure Out How We Can Reverse The Process.

Enter My First Neighbor - A Woman Who Spoke In Complete, Coherent Sentences, Who Ate With A Knife And Fork And Who Only Cried At Weddings. I Couldn't Help Myself. In A Dramatic Gesture, I Bolted The Door And Threw My Body Across It To Prevent Her Exit. She Understood.