I can hear my cell phone blowing up. First a text, then endless ringing until it goes to voicemail. Trying to work on my novel and tune out distractions, I kick myself for neglecting the first rule of writing: turn off all devices.
Then, the landline starts to ring and it doesn’t take caller ID to know it’s my daughter with the tragedy du jour. I pick up, knowing that she’ll keep trying until she has to resort to calling her father. God forbid. He’ll dispense real advice. Taboo in the parenting manual.
That’s my 26-year-old daughter, calling in for her daily dose of moral support or to simply “kvetch.” When her life is going well, it’s a joy to pick up, but when it’s not… well, that’s when I need to be on my A-game. [Read More…]