So the mother of my children, the apple of my eye, the love of my life, feeling (quite obviously) that life is never quite complicated enough takes on a high-profile job in a field totally unrelated to anything she has experienced before. Yes…this is the woman who is completing a masters-level program on what the university calls a “part-time program” (for the professor, perhaps).
So now, the late evening quietude is broken by the sounds of a woman muttering blasphemous incantations directed at her closet as she frets about what to wear to a TV interview or what she is going to say at the breakfast table with one of the country’s most prominent politicians.
Dearest daughter asked me, somewhat rhetorically, the other morning why she felt sick every time we passed the school’s front doors. “It’s in your genes, dear”… I replied.
“But I’m not wearing jeans…” she retorted.