Lisa writes: This morning, The New York Times posted a wonderful article, “After the Children have Grown,” about motherhood and the transition to the empty nest. The author, noted psychologist Madeline Levine, confirms what Anna Quindlen has often said, that the real empty nest begins the day our youngest child graduates from college. Yet Levine takes a different look at our children’s separation as not a single moment but rather one more step on a long path of pain and happiness that is parenting. She explains,
Motherhood inextricably weaves growth and loss together from the moment of physical separation at birth to every milestone passed.
Yet she finds that, in some ways, parents are unprepared for this transition despite the fact that we should have seen it coming.
Grown and Flown sends you this digital bouquet of Mother’s Day flowers taken by our friend, TBKilman, at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney and Melbourne, Australia. We invite you to click through these stunning photos. Have a wonderful day!
From Cathy, a Grown and Flown writer:
She rarely wore jewelry. Her face was a perfect oval, with large round deep-set eyes and a Roman nose. That face possessed a genuine beauty far exceeding the allure of any gemstone. The wedding band she wore was gold, small and unobtrusive. Her jet black hair was always simple, pulled back in a chignon or loose and wavy around her face. She was, in fact, of Roman descent. My mother.
If I close my eyes and think of her, I picture her in a pair of Bermuda shorts, blouse tucked in, sneakers on, headed out to the garden to weed. Or dressed in a pale yellow shift dress with a simple pair of pumps and a handbag. Her skin was medium olive and she tanned easily. As a girl, she spent summers in Milford, Connecticut where her father, an Italian immigrant and New York merchant, had a summer home. There she learned to seed the garden, look for plover’s eggs and listen to the sound of the sea as it strummed the shoreline. Raised in the city, she was a country girl at heart. Continue reading