Author: Maggie Simone

“This will be my first Mother’s Day without my son,” I said sadly, on a recent visit to my nearly 80-year-old mother. “You don’t know what that feels like.” My mother looked around at photos of her six children and eight grandchildren, none of whom live nearby, and said, “Of course, honey. I’m sorry. It must be so hard.” And then I believe she may have rolled her eyes. I was glancing around when it hit me. “I know what will make me feel better!” I said. “I’ll paint your kitchen!” It has become clear that when I am sad…

“Children should be seen and not heard.” That was one of the prevailing parenting tips of past generations. When I was a kid, I learned not to share my thoughts, feelings and problems. I kept my troubles — depression, anxiety, OCD, an eating disorder — inside, eventually seeking relief as an adult in the office of a therapist. That was when I realized the effort of hiding had caused me to miss half my life. Through the years I’ve learned that one way to banish the stigma of mental illness is to share stories — mine and others’. I remember…

We have three generations of some pretty amazing women in my family. My mother raised six children, was the middle school secretary for 20 years, and then became a certified lifeguard—which she still is, at age 78. She has led, and continues to lead, a productive, at times challenging, always fulfilling life. In her youth she was tall, slender, strawberry blond, with gorgeous skin. She’s slightly shorter now, slender, with snow white hair and still-gorgeous skin. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. She also still weighs herself every day, wonders if her arms are too…

W  hen I tell stories about my father from the old days, one of the most popular is about the time I broke a milk bottle in the sink and decided to stick my hand in to pull out the glass. Standing in the kitchen with my bloody hand wrapped in a dish towel, I listened to my father give a lengthy explanation of the downside of that decision. Then he took me to the hospital for stitches. That’s what I usually remember. Fast-forward to last week, when I was teaching my son to drive. I offered instruction and patient advice,…

It seems like we spend our kids’ childhoods preparing them for the dangers of the world. I remember learning about those dangers as I grew up, watching my mom waiting up for my older brothers, and thinking about them when I had kids of my own. From their infant car seats so they’re safe in a collision, to outlet covers so they don’t stick their little fingers in sockets, to toilet lid anchors so they don’t   . . . whatever it is we’re afraid they’re going to do with an open toilet, we’re careful. And we try to teach…

“Remember when my school supplies consisted of some folders, pencils and crayons?” my daughter said, laughing, as we laid out our cart full of this year’s supplies. “I sure miss those days!” She’s a freshman in high school now, my girl; her brother is a junior. These years they will see firsts that make learning to walk and talk seem like, if you’ll pardon the pun, child’s play. They will learn to drive, have first loves and, likely, first heartbreaks. Their bodies will change in ways that may confound them. Their circles of friends will change as personalities and interests…

When I first started having migraines, people were concerned. I was concerned. I was taken to the doctor, put in a dark room, injected with medication, fussed over. The more people who knew, the better, as far as I was concerned, because that meant a better chance of getting helped. And without exception, whoever I told expressed sympathy. When you tell people you have an illness, that’s often the response: sympathy. They may ask questions about the symptoms, the kinds of medications you’re taking or the kinds of therapies you might be on and whether they’re working. You can talk…

Watching my teenage daughter and her friends as they navigate the world of changing bodies, fluctuating hormones, short tempers and self-esteem crises, I am suddenly met with an emotional reaction heretofore relegated to her age group: “HEY! HELLLOOO! I’m in the room here! What about me? I’m going through the same thing here! Where’s my sympathy?” And it’s true. While I’m sure the powers that be did not necessarily plan on mothers leaving the period years just as their daughters are starting them, it is a fact nevertheless, at least for some of us. As we approach 50—OK, fine, as…

When my kids were babies, I related to them as a mother; it was the only frame of reference I had. I didn’t remember being a baby, and so I couldn’t necessarily empathize with, say, the frustration of not being able to verbalize thoughts or change the channel. I was their mother, doing what I thought was best for them. And they always listened. Then one year it happened: They reached an age I actually remember being. From middle school on, I remember the drama, the angst, the Swedish clogs that everyone had but I couldn’t afford. At that point…

I am not much like my father. Oh, there are some similarities—the tendency to yell when a child is about to toddle into danger, the inability to suffer fools—but for the most part, we are very different. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been comfortable in his own skin. Growing up, I used to envy his sense of self, wondering how I could inherit his receding hairline but miss out on something so crucial. That’s just who we are, he and I. It was part of our family dynamic, coming from a generation in which fathers were in charge,…