As I walk to the car, wearing comfortable jeans and sensible sneakers, purse packed with a water bottle and a book, one hand high overhead so as not to drag my daughter’s costume bag, her makeup freshly scrubbed from my fingertips, I smile to myself and turn to holler at my husband. 36, baby! Is this what you saw when you scooped me up at 19?! He smiles back at me and says, I’ll take that any day. And off we go, my baby and I, to the weekend-long ordeal that is a ballet recital. To my own mother, who survived these things on my behalf decades ago, thank you.
2022
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