Lorrie Goldin
About this author:
Lorrie Goldin is a psychotherapist who practices in San Rafael and Berkeley (www.lorriegoldin.com). Her essays have appeared on NPR and in various publications. She is married and the mother of two teenagers, and is beginning to see the light through the disintegrating twigs of the empty nest.
My Articles:
Unattainable Ideals Offer Unrealistic Comparisons
The Society for Sex Therapists and Research recently released the greatest public service announcement in history. Perfectly satisfying intercourse between loving partners most often occurs between three and thirteen minutes. This does not mean that somewhere in America, someone—not you—is coupling every three to thirteen minutes, but that longer is not necessarily better. What a relief that marathon lovemaking is more myth than measure of intimate pleasures.
Thanksgiving to Holiday Memories
Napkin rings crafted from toilet paper tubes, the wrong kind of pickle, jeans at the dinner table — I had already made too many concessions.
My irritation grew as the girls lost interest in helping halfway through peeling the apples. Determined to be thankful for my family and friends, though, I tried not to sweat the small stuff.
Thanksgiving morning brought major sweating — and shivering. The flu had struck. I was too weak to crawl out of bed, much less roast a turkey and conjure up gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans, piping hot and on the table at the same magical moment.
Teens Can Accept Green Instead of Greenbacks
A teachable moment arrived recently in the form of an e-mail from the graduation committee of my daughter’s high school. It was a plea for extra donations to keep Safe and Sober Grad Night afloat. The Senior Class ritual is jeopardized because families and community businesses who usually fund the celebration are themselves struggling to stay afloat.
A Mother’s Friendship Will Last Forever
“Shoot me if it comes to that,” I make my husband promise every time I visit Maggie. If his response is any indication, I suspect he’ll oblige.
“He must be a saint,” shudders my husband as I describe Maggie’s decline and her husband Peter’s ministrations.
His horror foreshadows the treatment Continue… »
Mothers are NOT Allowed to Get Sick
At first I engage in all-out battle: Echinacea, Emergen-C, the vaporizer, green tea, an early bedtime. But it’s no use. Surrender is inevitable.
So I wave the white flag: I cancel all my appointments and take up residence on the couch with the comforter and a stack of magazines.
I am lucky enough to be able to indulge in such a luxury. I won’t lose my job (since I’m self-employed, what can my boss do?). The loss of income hurts, but is not catastrophic. My kids are old enough now to fend for themselves.
Mother Attempts to Talk to Her Teenage Daughter
Weary of news about the world falling apart, I turn to the comic page for relief. Recently, however, that’s been just as hair-raising as reading about Iraq or global warming. April is in trouble.
April is the sixteen-year-old in For Better or for Worse, which chronicles the domestic ups and downs of an average Canadian family. Unlike most comics frozen in time, these characters age. They grapple with real-life problems, not just how much they can pile on a pastrami sandwich.
I’ve followed April’s development closely, because she was born just a few weeks after my daughter. She’s smart and sassy, just like my daughter. She’s a great, responsible kid whom everyone likes, just like my daughter. Right now she’s lying on the bed making out with a boy who’s come to visit when her parents aren’t home, just like . . .
Mother Finds Religion, Along with Dirty Laundry
“Maybe she’s practicing for the Rapture,” I think, picking my way across the house from one pile of discarded clothing to the next.
I envision her spontaneous uplift into the heavens, leaving all worldly possessions behind, including socks, underwear and crumpled dirty Kleenex.
That’s how I deal with my daughter’s messiness. It sure beats the daily temptation to shout at her for being such a slob.
When Kids Discover Who Santa REALLY Is
No separate wrapping paper and tags. Not having to disguise one’s penmanship or remember whether Santa’s cursive slants left or right every year. Not having to remember that the girls can’t yet read cursive. I guess there are a few benefits to Christmas with nonbelievers.
But mostly it makes me sad that we no longer need to dispose of scummed-over cocoa and apples for the reindeer after the kids have finally gone to bed on Christmas Eve. (My brother trained his kids to leave beer for Santa.)
It wasn’t so bad when our eldest daughter grew suspicious about Santa’s largesse. In fact, she seemed more impressed that her notoriously cheap parents were the ones springing for all that loot than by the idea of a fat guy squeezing down millions of chimneys in the space of a few hours.
The Brad Effect
OK, so the Bradley Effect failed to materialize in the presidential election.
Presidential Race
Back in the good old days of late August, the Democratic Party held a convention to nominate the first African-American from a major party for president of the United States.
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