These two pictures hang above my desk. They say an awfully lot without my needing to interpret them for you, but let me talk awhile anyway. My husband is not just a father to our children. He’s their Daddy. Sam, who is a Mama’s boy, has lately started demanding his Daddy-hugs at bedtime again and saying, in a worried little voice, “I like Daddy best.” He doesn’t yet understand the ebb and flow of a parent-child relationship, and he worries that he’s hurting me. He always seems surprised by my delight. I tell him, “That’s wonderful. I love you, and sis, and Daddy best.”
Sam’s a carbon copy of Scott.… Read the rest
If I ever wondered to what degree the internet had me cookied, I got my answer today. The irritating ad-bar that runs down the side of my webmail was showing a mocked up certificate of some kind for Harold Bradshaw. This would be my dead grandfather who had an MD. So the net demons have grabbed his name but absolutely none of the context surrounding it from my e-mails. The whole “MD” thing has flown under the radar, or I’d see spam inviting him to attend some medical convention, not an offer for a certificate in something sketchy.
Nor have they picked up on his actual relationship to me, because otherwise I’d be getting Father’s Day tips.… Read the rest