I've told all the stories that I can tell. Oh, I've still got a stack that are too sad, or too embarrassing, or that have the word "naked" in them, but basically, I'm done telling my stories of raising teenaged boys.
I used to wonder why no one was writing stories about raising older, adult children, and now I know. On a practical matter, my sons are just not around. I don't have the same access to their stories. All the news I get is secondhand. And the subject matter is mostly off limits---I cannot post on the internet their stories about a prickly boss or a bad breakup. Even though I still feel as strongly as ever about the funny, poignant moments of motherhood, the stories about my adult children do not belong to me. The belong to my children, and they are the ones who get to decide whether to tell them or not.
So I think I'm done, at least I'm done telling their stories. I'm not done writing, and I hope in the new year that I will find new things to write about. . .work, friendships, aging, and marriage. I hope you will still visit this space and find out what happens next.
I'd like to thank my sons for being the best sports of all time. I know it hasn't been easy for you, but writing these stories and hearing readers' responses to them has been one of the most exhilarating things I have ever done. I don't think I ever understood how much I was loved by my own parents until I became a parent myself. I hope that one day, when you are fathers, you will read these stories again and understand how overwhelmingly and thoroughly I love you. How deeply and wholly and completely and utterly I love you. Every minute of every day, no matter how furious or frustrated or frantic I get, I will always, always love you.