Dear Dr. Ford: Our family has spent a two-week summer vacation on the farm where my husband grew up in the Midwest since our children, now 16 and 14, were born. This year my daughters were ill behaved and snobbish in their behavior toward their loving extended family. My husband and I have not decided what to do about this situation yet and I thought I would write to you to ask for some guidance.
It is a difficult task, trying to raise kids with enough playtimes and down time to develop normally and have good old-fashioned fun in this atmosphere, yet both these things are crucial to cognitive development.
Early boosters of the day focused on the spiritual, patriarchal aspect. One pastor, Conrad Bluhm, saw a chance to “affirm the robust masculinity of Christianity” in a first Father’s Day sermon, adding that it was “the knighthood that never retreats . . . the heavy artillery by which God Almighty will storm the citadel of sin.”
How an all-female dinner party differed from the usual gatherings of couples—in a good way.
We took this time to do what women do best: we had fun just catching up, admiring the amazing and truly beautiful collection of flowers in full bloom in the Botanical Garden, then finding a quiet table during the cocktail hour to reconnect.
I loved photographing the schoolchildren in the Memorial Day parade, when recognition of a parent in the crowd-filled sidewalks initiated a loss of composure and a squall of wildly waving hands.
You can Google a lot of blah blah about why we mustn’t wear this or that before Memorial Day. My mother knew better.
This spring we have been blessed by the publication of two new novels about families. "The Nest," by Cynthia D’Apprix Sweeny, is a debut for this 55-year-old former copywriter. "Miller’s Valley," is the latest entry from veteran writer Anna Qunidlen, and it may be her best yet.
Even the best mother-daughter relationships are necessarily tormented with issues of dependence versus independence, identity formation, role reversal, competition, and impossible desire. Some give rise to poems like today’s: fraught, even agonized at times, but also honest and still holding a place for love.
My mom’s roots run deep and strong, but for 13 years she was forced to be a wanderer—a refugee from the day World War II started, in September 1939, until June 29, 1952, when she came to this country with $10 in her pocket.