If I Had To Do It Over Again I’d Be Less of A Jerk

get-attachment-8.aspxIf I had to parent my oldest son over again I’d be less of a jerk.

We were working on the all important photo montage for my youngest son’s bar mitzvah and in the process we looked at hundreds of baby pictures and in still life we look like the model family. There is so much cuteness there that it’s hard to winnow the pile of photos down to the requisite hundred images needed for the montage. And then another thought occurs to us; perhaps we should include a few minutes of video footage in the montage. So we decide to watch some video footage of my youngest son’s circumcision ceremony/party.

At the very end of the footage there is what appears to be a very short addendum in which the venue has changed, the party has ended and we are home. The infant child is cradled in my arms feeding and my nine-year old son is in his Hannah Anderson cotton matching PJs. If we had a still picture of this, I would have melted, smiled knowingly and pronounced it to be, “precious.” But, unfortunately this is the age of video. My husband’s disembodied voice can be heard in the background asking, “Andrew what did you think of your brother’s “bris?”  “I don’t know” the child replies in a whiny, reedy voice. My husband can be heard groaning disappointedly on the sound track while I launch into a diatribe on the order of, “Answer daddy, speak up, ‘I don’t know’ is your answer to everything, tell us what you thought of the bris,” blah, blah, blah. I silently implore my video image to stop haranguing that poor, clearly exhausted child.

And then it strikes me; we were such jerks. What did we want from this child who with the clarity of thirteen years of hindsight and several years’ worth of sleep filled nights looks almost as much like a baby as his eight-day old brother. But at the time with a three-year old and an infant we looked to the nine-year old as if he would shortly be donning a business suit and going off to work.

I’m actually surprised we didn’t ask him to write a dissertation about his brother’s “bris.” So, MARK MY WORDS younger parents and mark them well, when your infant arrives that does not make your older child older than he actually is. Don’t fall into that trap because someday you might just watch some video footage of yourself and wish for a do over.

And to my oldest son, please accept my sincere apology. If we screwed you up, it was wholly unintentional. In my defense, birth order is destiny. Now get over it. By the way what do you think of David’s bar mitzvah speech? And, let me just put it out there, “I don’t know” is not an acceptable answer. I’ll be expecting some lucid, non-whiny commentary by this evening.

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Remembering My Mother-In-Law

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It’s been two years on the Jewish calendar since I delivered this eulogy.

I met Edith Wingens some twenty-seven years ago. If I said it was love at first sight for either one of us, I’d be lying. After all, I had come to take her son and she was, naturally, wary. I understood that then and being the mother of three sons, I understand it even better now.

But, there we were.

So, when Gary told his mother that I was the one, she said the three words that every young man wants to hear from his mother upon imparting such news, and they were, “Are you sure????”

But Edith was nothing if not an adaptable. And, we found our way. She was a force of nature, a whirling dervish, a person who made an entrance. I am a bit more reserved, laid back, a person who prefers to slip into a room unnoticed. She was a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and I am slightly more monochromatic. As it turned out we were perfect foils. We didn’t clash but we sometimes collided. Gently.

When Gary and I were first married Edith said, “Helene, let me show you how to iron Gary’s shirts” to which I responded, “let’s show Gary how to iron his own shirts.” Edith replied, “I did NOT send my son to Harvard Law School to learn to iron shirts.” Well, I had also gone to law school and although the comment rankled, I smiled, watched the ironing demonstration with great enthusiasm and took Gary’s shirts to the dry cleaner the next day.

Edith asked me to refer to her as “mom.” I said I would love to but two years later –after Edith realized I hadn’t called her anything in two years– she said, “You don’t need to call me mom, just PLEASE call me something….”

Twenty six years later sitting across from me at my table after I had once again smiled and agreed to something I had no intention of doing, to all of our surprise Edith remarked, “From now on I’m going to be more like Helene. WOW I thought now we’re getting somewhere. “In what way?” I asked. She answered, “Well, when someone asks me to do something I’m going to smile, say yes and then do whatever I want to do.” It had only taken 26 years but I’d finally been snagged.

As the years went by Edith and I found common ground. Frankly, when I was 23 I thought a lot of what she said was foolish but as I aged, a lot of it began to have the ring of truth. And, there is no better common ground than grandchildren.

She began to tell me that I was a good mother, a more patient mother than she’d been and her praise meant a lot to me. I began to understand that having 20 people for dinner, which she did often, was no small feat. I became a better cook. She became freer with her compliments. And, when Edith compliments your food, you know you’ve arrived. I began to appreciate the strength of her character, her optimism, her iron will and her enduring friendships.

Often when I visited her in the hospital or rehab she would insist on proudly telling all who dared enter, “This is my daughter in law.” She would clutch my hand and tell me how happy she was that I had come and how did I know to come just when she needed me to?

One of our last interactions was at rehab. Talking had become difficult for her. We sat, mostly in silence, and then she said, “You have three wonderful sons.” “Yes, and you have a wonderful son also” I quipped. “As good as gold” she answered. But, I would argue better than gold because gold cannot buy the kind of devotion you have shown your parents, Gary. That can only come from the heart. Many sons have done well but you, Gary, surpass them all. From the moment your mother perceived your presence in her womb as a craving for herring you gave your parents such joy, such enormous joy. At the end, you doggedly pursued their comfort and dignity with tremendous compassion even when you were so tired you could barely hold your head up. You felt their pain and did everything in your power to ease it. I can only hope our sons have been watching…

Today, legally I am not a mourner but still I mourn. Edith, Omi, Mom, I will miss you.

As I said, two years have passed since I delivered this eulogy and I miss her.

I really do.

The College Conundrum

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When my oldest son was applying to college my mother in law used to repeatedly ask where “A” was going to go to college. As I grew weary of the question I would flippantly reply, “Wherever they’ll take him.” Why wouldn’t X school take him?” she would ask incredulously “He’s such a nice boy.”

Now, I am launching a second son (a junior) into the college search process but since it’s not the first time I’ve done this, my vision is a bit clearer.

If you have a high school junior or senior you’re probably getting mail by the bucket load from colleges, some of which you’ve heard of and some of which are new to you.  The first time out, I was secretly awed by this flood of mail.  I tried to be cool about it but inside I was bursting. Wow, I thought, they really want HIM.  I wasn’t sure how they knew what a fabulous kid son number one was but I just figured someone had let them in on the secret.

Now I know that four years of college is a commodity and this detritus from the colleges is just a massive marketing blitz.  Colleges are trying to sell their schools.  What exactly are they trying to sell and, more importantly, what are we looking to buy? As I look at the brochures on my kitchen island certain phrases jump out at me. One college says they are, “Leading the way.”  Where exactly are we going?  Another college, Morris Catholic, tells my sixteen-year old son who has attended Jewish Day School for the last twelve years, “You are the future.”  I hope he’s someone’s future but I’m just not sure he’s their future.  Other schools are more creative: “Where leaders learn.” or “Arrive Realize Thrive” It’s a morass of pithy, pointless sayings which clarify nothing.

It’s seductive to believe that all these schools know and want your child but let me assure you that what the college actually wants is your child’s application. Think application fees and selectivity. Selectivity is a factor used to raise a school’s ranking so the more applicants, the more rejections, the more selective a school becomes and the school’s ranking rises.  It’s not personal. They don’t know your child and admissions is, after all, just a numbers game.

A friend who’s been down this road before likes to remind me of the course catalog as thick as two phone books that her son got from a top ten school along with many other pieces of mail from that school, only to later be rejected by said school. The rejection caused her son tremendous angst but at the end of the day he wound up at the right college for him and later at a terrific law school.  After all of the agita, ninety seven percent of my older son’s friends ended up at schools where they have flourished academically and socially.

So, what am I looking to buy for my number two son aside from the pithiest of sayings on the coolest brochure? First, these  are the things I know to be true; there is not only one right college for my child, there are many colleges that would serve him well. Second, it’s very hard to screw this up because most kids do really well at the schools where they end up.

The framework of what I’m looking for is a safe, nurturing place for my son to develop from an immature eighteen year old into a mature twenty-two year old, while he learns, decides what the next step will be and makes friends.  The details: big/small, sports/no sports, urban/rural, greek life/no greek life…that’s for him to flesh out.

Oh, and where is the line on the application where we tell them what a nice boy he is?

Why I Don’t Regret Being A Stay At Home Mom

Helene and her boysI just finished reading Lisa Endlich Heffernan’s Huffington Post article entitled, Why I Regret Being a Stay-at-Home Mom, (link below) in which she discusses her “misgivings” about her twenty years as a stay at home mom.  And the truth is many of my friends have told me emphatically that Heffernan has given voice to how they feel.  It saddens me that so many of my friends regret their life choices. I would argue that, although currently many of us have reached a transition point, for most of us staying home was the highest and best use of our resources at the time.

In her article Heffernan says,

“Now, on the downslope of parenting, I have misgivings about my decision to stay home. While I don’t know any parent who regrets time spent with their kids, especially kids who have moved on to their own lives — and I include myself among them — in hindsight, my decision seems flawed. Although I am fully aware that being a SAHM was certainly a luxury, staring at an empty nest and very diminished prospects of employment, I have real remorse.”

Heffernan states that being a SAHM was “certainly a luxury” but given the countless woman who are forced to work just to put food on the table and who would give anything to be home with their children, I find that statement to be jarringly glib. We need to be extraordinarily mindful of the gift of choice, a gift that not all women are privileged to enjoy.

Heffernan’s assertion that her decision to stay home for twenty years was “flawed” is also a little too flippant for me.  It’s not like Heffernan ordered the hamburger and fries and then decided she really should have had the salad.  This is the kind of decision you make every day, every month and every year during which you are home with your children. And, what shall we say to mothers who worked outside the home while their children were young and now say they wish they had spent more time at home with their kids? You can never get that time with your children back, they say. Somehow, the grass is always greener.

Over the course of twenty years,  Heffernan contends,  “I stayed home with my kids because I wanted to be with them….I did not stay home because I believed they needed me or that the nanny I had hired could not do a great job.”

If we’re not with our kids because they need us, why are we with them?  Although I was trained as a lawyer, I stayed home with my children because whatever mediocrity I offered the law paled in comparison to the excellence I offered my children, not because I was an outstanding mother but because I was THEIR mother.  Even on my worst day, no nanny, no au pair and no babysitter no matter how highly trained or paid could give them what I could…the imperfect parenting of a mother who loves them perfectly.

Heffernan lays out nine specific reasons for her remorse:

I let down those who went before me.

I used my driver’s license far more than my degrees.

My kids think I did nothing.

My world narrowed.

I got sucked into a mountain of volunteer work.

I worried more.

I slipped into a more traditional marriage.

I became outdated.

I lowered my sights and lost confidence.

As for me:

The feminists who preceded me gave me choices and I thank them for that but I’m under no illusion that my personal choices are meaningful to anyone but me and my immediate family.  My driver’s license and my lawyer’s license are both just pieces of paper and driving my son to a social action project seems far more valuable than reviewing another lease.   I don’t care what my kids think I do, because I know what I do and I know they would be worse off if I didn’t do it.  I’m the adult and in the end, it is my failure if I have not taught them to respect me. Yes, my world is narrow but does working in a white shoe law firm or a high-end financial firm make it any less so?

As for the volunteer work, if it’s not meaningful to you, don’t do it and find some that is meaningful. And while it’s true that when the volunteer work is over, it’s over, there is always more to be done. Does being home mean you worry more about your kids? It can but I know working moms who are extreme hoverers and SAHM moms who are not; less correlation here than you might think.

Slipping into a more traditional marriage would have happened anyway.  The statistics are clear that even full time working mothers do the lion’s share of the childcare and housework.  The only difference is that you would have eventually become Ozzie and Harriet anyway but Harriet would be working and working Harriet would be furious at Ozzie for not pulling his weight at home.

We become outdated and our aspirations for ourselves slip. I think that even when you stay in the workplace eventually you lean on those young men you raised to change the channel on the TV.  We are all on a journey toward obsolescence and sorry, but obsolescence delayed is not obsolescence denied.

I think, for all our purposes we need to reframe the conversation, not to dwell on our regrets but on how we can make child rearing easier for all of us: how to make woman feel less isolated after they have babies, how to afford women who need to work better options for childcare, how to make part-time work more feasible, how to allow women to on-ramp back to work after a lengthy absence, if they so desire and how to be more supportive of each other’s decisions. What is right for one is not right for all.

There are no do-overs for any of us but I feel fortunate to have been able to stay home and do this very challenging job of raising well-adjusted young people. If making a nest for my children meant clipping my own wings then so be it. If I am blessed with thirty more years there may yet be a second act for me. And, if I’m not, this is where I wanted to be but more importantly, this is where my children needed me to be.  These twenty years were my gift to them and to me.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/grown-and-flown/why-i-regret-being-a-stay-at-home-mom_b_3402691.html

Cherishing the Moment….Not So Much

get-attachment-4.aspxI’m a huge fan of Anna Quindlen’s writing.  I recently stumbled upon an excerpt from her book, Loud and Clear, which was published in 2004.  I was in the “thick” of child rearing back when I read it the first time and it made me feel guilty for not “treasuring” my children’s youth more.  In the excerpt, Quindlen talks about how much she’s enjoying her adult children, but then she waxes nostalgic about her children’s babyhood regretfully saying,

“But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.”

Well, I’m of a different mind than Quindlen.  I’m just thrilled that that moment has passed.  Does that make me a bad mother? Maybe it does or maybe it just makes me an honest mother.  I’m a better mother to older kids than I was to younger ones.  I found those early years to be physically grueling and endlessly challenging.

And, as for all the things Quindlen doesn’t remember, well, maybe that’s my problem because even with my pathetically poor memory I remember all of those things in living color and with laser sharpness.  Let’s break it down.  I remember what we ate. How could I not? Although, it was barely recognizable as food, I scraped those food-like substances off the floor, the ceiling, the high chair, myself, and my children for years.

I remember what we talked about, the same things over and over and over and over.  Did the kids once in a while say the most penetrating, insightful, adorable stuff?  Of course.  But, in the meantime did they prattle endlessly until I wanted to pull my hair out? You got that straight. Most of all, I remember how they looked as they slept at night because those little bed hogs would often wake us up as they crawled into our bed.  If memory serves, they looked like fully prone starfish as we, their parents perched precariously on the small sliver of bed left to us, and just as an aside, their body temperature was usually upwards of a hundred twenty degrees making the bed more of a steam bath than a bed.

Is it ok to admit that looking at colleges blows away looking at cribs by about a thousand miles? Or that I would choose to grip the sides of the car in abject terror while sitting next to my sixteen year old novice driver rather than watch a two year old take his fiftieth spill from his Big Wheel as he goes up and down the driveway for the millionth time. The former may be hives-inducing but the latter is so excruciatingly mind numbing, as to be physically painful.

Was I in a hurry for them to grow up? Yup. I’ve just never been one of those mothers who wanted to keep her kids young or who wanted to keep them in the moment. And, if I wanted to freeze a moment in time, that moment would be now. Would, I go back to 10, 5 and 1? Not to be young again. Not to be svelte again. Not to be wrinkle-free again. In other words, not for nothing.

Forgive me if I’m just trying to look back without the rose colored glasses.  I can’t remember the good of it (and there was plenty good) without remembering the overwhelming difficulty of it.

I just don’t have a nostalgic bone in my body. And, as I look through old photos searching for a picture to insert with this post, I’m gobsmacked. Those babies of mine. Oh. My. Stars. They were so darn cute!!!!!

Sometimes Be A Taker

538370_356428034399493_1616802518_acaring-296x300A little while ago I got a lovely note from a friend who is battling breast cancer.  It was a note of thanks to a group of helpers and it was posted through a website called “Lotsa Helping Hands.” For the last few months I’ve been really impressed with how the site functions in terms of its pure utilitarian value.  My friend or her liaison post a series of needs on a calendar and an email goes out to anyone registered to the site indicating that needs have been posted prompting site registrants to see if they can fill any of those needs.

In my “ethical will” posting my advice to my children was to be givers but sometimes to be takers.  Somewhat counter-intuitively, being a taker is often harder than being a giver.  At, least that’s the way it’s always been for me. Learning to be a taker has taken me a long time. Back when my children were tiny, it seemed that one of them was always sick. My husband worked insane hours and I had no local family support.  From time to time I needed something as simple as milk or juice from the store or a prescription from the local pharmacy.  This was back in the days before food and prescription delivery became common.  I had friends who offered their help but my first, kneejerk response was always “no.”  My first thought was that I would figure out a way to do things myself and thinking back, I regret that I didn’t accept their help as graciously as it was offered.

I think the head fake here is that by allowing people to render care, you are actually doing a kindness for them because most people genuinely enjoy being helpful. It makes them feel good. I’m no saint. Trust me. I don’t travel to third world countries offering to take care of underprivileged populations but I’m happy help locally in my own small way.  The truth is, being a giver feels good.  It makes me feel good and I see that it makes my kids feel good as well. What has always felt unnatural to me is being a taker, either accepting help or admitting that I need help.

That brings me back to my friend and Lotsa Helping Hands. Sometimes it’s ok to be the vulnerable one.  Sometimes you need to fall back and let your community wrap its arms around you.  It’s not weakness, it’s just the “way of things” and unfortunately we’ll all have our turn to be in the needy spot.

And, that’s why I told my sons to be givers, but sometimes, just sometimes, you need to do something even harder.  Be takers.

If It’s Not One Thing It’s Your Mother

images-3If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.

My relationship with my mother is complicated. Of course it is. She is a product of her childhood, as we all are, and hers really sucked. Big time. She spent her formative years in the Tarnopol ghetto with a front row seat to starvation, cruelty and death. She and her mother escaped from the ghetto right before it was made Judenrein (Jew free) and were hidden in the attic of a barn for a year before being liberated by Russian soldiers. Upon liberation her legs were so atrophied that she had to learn to walk again.

Nowadays, if you have one traumatic experience, you go for years of counseling. But, back then, after the war, you simply carried on.  End of story, or so they thought, but those of us who have been picking up the pieces, know better.

My father gathered mom in and sheltered her in the cocoon of his love. He never pushed her. The boundaries of her comfort zone were narrow and carefully maintained. She took excellent physical care of my brother and me, but emotionally it was a long climb down from that attic and I think she’s still stuck somewhere on one of those downward rungs.

When I was growing up mom had frequent, recurring nightmares about a little girl being chased by the Nazis. Not surprisingly, the little girl in the dream was her. One morning, as I was getting ready to go to school, mom informed me that she had had the dream again but this time when the little girl turned around she realized that the little girl in the dream was me. Recently, while we were driving somewhere mom told my kids that when I was a child she tried not to get attached to me because she was afraid something could happen to me.  She failed in her attempt “not to get attached.”  She didn’t say that.  She didn’t have to. I just know it to be true because she is me and I am her and she and I are bound up in that most complex and timeless dance between mothers and their daughters.

We don’t all get a Hallmark mother.  Some of us get a good enough mother with a great deal of baggage.  If I complained to my father he would beseech me, “ She’s doing the best she can. What do you want from her?”  What indeed?  There are no perfect mothers, just as there are no perfect daughters.  Today, I thank God for the gift of a mother who emerged from her attic prison, bent but not broken, hobbled but not hopeless.

And from one flawed mother to another, I love you, mom.

Happy Mother’s Day.

And So It Begins….

And so it begins, for the third and final time.

Today was my youngest son’s first tutorial for his bar mitzvah. As I wait for him to finish his lesson, I ponder the ways in which it is all so different this third time around. When my oldest son began his bar mitzvah lessons we marked the date of his first lesson on a large paper calendar as if it was some sacrosanct event. In contrast, a half an hour ago my iPhone startled me a bit as an alarm went off reminding me that D had a bar mitzvah lesson. Without that reminder and a nudge from the child himself, this lesson might have been forgotten. And, isn’t that just the way it’s always gone for my sweet, delicious third son.

When I was pregnant with my second child I worried that I wouldn’t be able to love another child as intensely as I loved the first. It turned out that my worry was unwarranted. Each son, in his turn, captured my heart fully and completely. I love each of them with the kind of love that would gladly coopt their pain as my own, and although the depth of my love is no different, I am a different parent to my third child than I was to my first.

The oldest son, of course, got all of the firsts, which has been both his blessing and his burden. I can sense that burden in the seriousness of his character and in the way he worries about all of us. The middle son, with his big personality, divined early on that as neither oldest, nor youngest he needed to declare himself. And, so he has. Loudly.  He has always demanded our attention and we are not likely to forget that he’s in the room. My littlest man is a quiet diplomat who has a gentle soul.  He doesn’t demand attention, or carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and sometimes I’m afraid he gets a little lost in the shuffle.

His parents are older, wearier, more likely to let things slide but we are also wiser and more weathered. Although, of course, I knew the first time around that a thirteen year old was not a man I truly didn’t realize how long it would take for that chrysalis to turn into a butterfly. I didn’t know that the years before a man emerged from a boy would be filled with such joy, such angst and so much agonizing push/pull. I didn’t know that I was capable of holding my breath for four hours while my son drove to college by himself the first time. And, I didn’t understand that even when they largely resemble men, complete with facial hair and deep voices, inside they are still little boys.

And this is what I think as I sit here listening to the sweet murmur of my baby’s voice. But, I also think that today is a beginning of sorts and a day worthy of blessing and I silently whisper, “Blessed are you God who has preserved me, sustained me and allowed me to arrive at this day and help me God to find the wisdom, patience and fortitude to love and guide this child according to his unique talents and abilities.”

And so it begins, for the third and final time.

Advice To The Daughters I Never Had

If you haven’t read or heard about Susan Patton’s Letter To the Editor in the Daily Princetonian (link below), where have you been?

In her letter, Ms. Patton appeals to the undergraduate women of Princeton, “the daughters” she “never had,” to “Find a husband on campus before they graduate.”   She has been absolutely skewered since writing the piece.  The outsized and outraged reaction caused DP’s website to crash.

There is some truth in what Patton says, if you can wade through the overwhelming amount of self-laudatory crap. But, let’s call this piece what it truly is: a delivery system for good news about Susan Patton.  And, I think that is what most people are objecting to, not necessarily the fundamental idea, but the tone.

Patton begins by giving herself kudos for having maintained her relationship with, “her best friend from freshman year.” She alleges that at the Women and Leadership conference she attended at Princeton, the undergraduate women were avidly interested in how she and her best friend had “sustained a 40 year friendship.” Really?  Is having a long-term friendship fabulous? Definitely.  Is it a subject of rapt fascination for 20 year olds? Um, no. I’m around a fair number of college age kids and I have more than one long-standing friendship.  Not one of the twenty somethings I know, including my own children, has ever expressed a scintilla of interest in how my friends and I sustain our relationships. Sorry, I’m just not buying it.

Then we get to the heart of the matter. Ms. Patton states, “I am the mother of two sons who are both Princetonians.  My older son had the good judgment and great fortune to marry a classmate of his, but he could have married anyone.” Really?   He could have married anyone?  Anyone? I think Patton just wanted to inform the Princeton community that her sons go/went to Princeton and that her older son is married and, better yet, he married a girl who went to Princeton. The younger son’s dating potential is, according to mama, “limitless.” Oy. I hope the younger son has entered the witness protection program. Poor kid.

But, putting Ms. Patton’s self-aggrandizement aside, I think she makes a fair point. I knew people in college who made silly lists of qualities for potential dates, not too short, not too thin/heavy, brown hair/blonde hair and so on.  Susan Patton is correct that college is one of those critical times in life. Don’t make lists that confine you. Look at your classmates with an open mind. Making friends is every bit as important, if not more so, than the classes you take.  And, you never know, your best friend or your life partner or both may be sitting next to you in class.

So, here is what I would tell “the daughters I never had”: College is a fantastic place to meet someone but if you don’t meet “the one” in college don’t panic.  There’s time. Don’t say, “He’s too nice.” Nice boys generally grow up to be nice men and nice men are, well, nice. If a guy is crazy about you, put that in the plus column, bolded and highlighted.  Look for red flags and if you see them, don’t walk, run. Don’t pass up the very good for the perfect because perfect doesn’t exist. Choose someone who makes you laugh because at the end of the day you want to spend a lot of time with someone who makes you laugh. If you can’t stand to be with someone even if they have a 200 IQ or 200 billion dollars, say goodbye. It’s just not worth it.

And, I would tell my mythical daughter the same thing I will tell my real son.  You will meet the right person at the right time.  And, when you meet that person you will know, maybe not immediately, but you will know.

Trust your own judgment. I do.  And, remember dad and I love you.

http://www.dailyprincetonian.com