Yep, I'm taking on a "Blogging 'A' to 'Z'" challenge. But the good news: Potsie's up first.

So about this “Blogging ‘A’ to ‘Z’” challenge, I thought I’d take it on in May for a couple of reasons:

1.  I don’t touch the blog nearly enough anymore, and

2. We have some pretty cool things going on, family-wise, in May.

So let’s get started (a little early, even).  This first “challenge” post has nothing to do with my family, but it may resonate with some of you other old people.

“A” is for Anson Williams.

Some of you might remember Anson as Warren “Potsie” Weber from “Happy Days,” a sitcom from the ‘70s that was set in the ‘50s.  Although the show was hugely popular at the time, I really don’t know why. It was really not that funny when I was a kid, and it hasn’t held up well at all.  But it was wholesome, and in the days of Watergate and Alice Cooper, people liked that.

In the midst of a show I was a little “meh” about overall, I loved Potsie.  He wasn’t the lead character (that would have been Richie Cunningham, played by the now-famous director Ron Howard, who is also the real-life dad of the red-haired vampire who was preying on Bella in many of the “Twilight” installments. But I digress.). He wasn’t the cool character; that would have been Henry Winkler’s bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold, Fonzie.

But Potsie was nerdy and nice, and in the later episodes, he became somewhat popular when he demonstrated a quite-adequate singing voice.  Potsie was the guy in the middle. I saw my preteen self as a girl in the middle.  It was a match made in angst-ridden heaven.

I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t unpopular.  I was smart, and a lot of people respected that, but I also didn’t look like Olivia Newton-John, and at the time, I would have traded all the intelligence in the world for that.

So I somehow imagined I would meet all the Happy Days guys one day, and Potsie would like me.  (Yes, I was 11 and he was probably 25 in real life. I clearly wasn’t thinking things through.)  I dreamed that although Richie and Fonzie wouldn’t give me a second look, good-hearted Potsie would somehow see past my braces and frizzy hair and be smitten by my semi-eidetic memory. 

And to woo me, he could sing to me.  (He seemed to sing only boring Elvis songs, but I’d learn to live with it, and maybe teach him some cool Osmonds or Jackson Five music.)

Sadly, I never met Potsie, but I somehow landed a guy who’s a little closer to a Fonzie – a guy who did see past the frizzy hair, and even the glasses I still wear.  And although he’s a little irritated by the semi-eidetic memory, he makes me feel like one of the popular girls.

Hope all’s well with Anson Williams these days.  If I were to meet him, I’d thank him for giving a preteen girl hope that even though sixth-grade boys could be pretty mean, a few of them might just grow up to be OK.

Never been exposed to the dulcet tones of Potsie Weber, you say? Watch and listen.

So what if I hate photos of myself? Time for it to not be about me.

Just one of the reasons I dislike photos of myself...

I have very few pictures of my mother. She didn't like the camera -- didn't like the way it settled on her perceived flaws without having given her time to stand a certain way or raise her chin just so. At least this is what I'm told; she died before we could even have a proper conversation. That's why I feel especially cheated about the lack of proof that she existed.

That's also why it makes no sense, then, that I avoid the camera as well. It's always been my belief that some people photograph beautifully every time lenses are trained on them -- my daughter is one of them -- but that others, no matter how painstakingly they style their hair and watch their posture, end up looking like Zack Galifianakis.

That would be me.

Even as a younger, thinner person, I hid from the camera. No matter how I posed, my double chin, round shoulders and somewhat droopy smile jumped to attention. I have exactly two good pictures of myself: One was taken when I was 23 and subsisting on nothing but air-popped popcorn and Crystal Light, and in the other, I was so pregnant that my giant belly made my limbs look like sticks.

But I didn't have kids during that period of my life, so my camera-avoidance didn't really matter all that much to anyone. Now, though, I wonder what the heck my children are going to do when the funeral home -- a long time from now, I hope -- wants to make a video to play during my service. Morbid, I know, but in the video of my dad that was shown at his funeral two years ago, there are exactly two photos of me, and about that many of my mother.

How old will I have to be before I realize it needs to stop being all about me?

Sure, I make it sound like it's really not. "Leave me out of the picture; the kids are so much cuter," I've always said, and although it's true, it's still a cop-out. Why haven't I been able to put aside my ego long enough to realize that my kids wouldn't care how rotund I looked as we smiled for the camera?

I exaggerate; there have been exceptions. And I marvel when I look at photos from 10 or 20 years ago that I didn't look nearly as bad as I thought I did at the time.

I guess I could blame celebrity moms; we're probably, on some level, indoctrinated to think that when Heidi Klum gathers all her kids into her lap and beams for People or Us, she hasn't just spent two hours in hair and makeup. We could also blame denial; even though I like to control the way the lens "sees" me, I can't deny the fact that in real life, I look the way I look.

I guess on some level, I'm pleased in this era of social-media oversharing that I'm not vain enough to assume people want to see my mug on Facebook every day. But my kids deserve proof not only of my existence, but of my relationships with each of them -- my affection for them and my joy at being in their presence. In 30 years, when they look at pictures of me, it's likely they'll say, "She looks so young," not "She's was so fat."

I know I'm not alone in feeling this way; I look at my friends' Facebooks and I see loads of photos of children and spouses and partners, and, in some cases, brand-new grandchildren. But so many of my friends are largely invisible, and when they do pose for the camera, they look sheepish, as if they're trying to sink into themselves.

It changes now. I'm not going to go overboard, but I'm going to strive to allow a picture to be taken of me at least once every season. Chances are I won't post the photos, but they'll be where my kids can find them.

But I'm warning you now, kids: If the response isn't an intake of breath and a "Wow, she looks so young," you're in big trouble.

Allowing gay people to marry won't threaten anyone. Please, U.S. Supreme Court: Do the right thing.

Like most of you, I learned about Brown vs. the Board of Education in school.  Current events incented me to refresh myself on its particulars last night.

For those who have forgotten, the decision reversed the doctrine of “separate but equal” under which the United States had been operating for more than half a century.  The vote against “separate but equal” was 9-0, and in perhaps his most significant decision, Chief Justice Earl Warren wrote:

“To separate [some children] from others of similar age and qualifications solely because of their race generates a feeling of inferiority as to their status in the community that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone.”

The decision paved the way for changes in the way African Americans were viewed in this country – unfortunately, it took a whole bunch of bloodshed for meaningful changes to take place, and we’re still waiting for things to be truly “equal” for the races that populate our nation.

But, bottom line: The Supreme Court did the right thing in 1954.  Will the justices do the same in 2013?

Wait a minute, you might say; a decision to help pave the way for allowing people who happen to be gay to marry one another can’t be compared to one that prevented a young Kansas girl from having to be bused miles and miles from her home so she could attend school with other children of “her kind.”

My response to you: Sure it can. Read this 1954 Supreme Court rationale, with my substitutions added, and tell me what you think.

“(Disallowing gay people to marry) has a detrimental effect upon the (people in question). The impact is greater when it has the sanction of the law; for the policy of separating (people on the basis of sexual identity) is usually interpreted as denoting the inferiority of the (gay) group. A sense of inferiority affects the motivation of a (gay person) to (thrive). Such (discrimination) with the sanction of law, therefore, has a tendency to [adversely impact] the (emotional) development of (gay people) and to deprive them of some of the benefits they would receive in a (truly integrated society).”

I’ve written often about my feelings regarding society’s attitudes toward people who happen to be gay. As a teenager and young adult, some of my closest friendships were with young men who were gay and closeted, and I witnessed the pain they went through as they contemplated exposing who they really were to the people they loved most.  Years later, I witnessed the same with a much-loved family member.

And in my opinion – and in the opinions of a majority of Americans – putting anyone through that type of misery is cruel, as being gay is clearly not a choice. It’s 2013, and with all due respect to friends and family members who feel otherwise, this nonsense needs to stop.

I was raised Catholic. I’m not sure exactly what flavor of Christianity I am anymore, but I know I’m a Christian. And I believe in that most basic tenet of the faith: “Love one another as I have loved you.” (“Judge not, lest thou be judged” is a good one, too.)

And while I respect the beliefs of people who feel homosexuality is something to be “healed” or “fixed” – some of whom are as passionate and fervent in their opinions as I am in mine -- I think they’re dead wrong. 

The Old Testament includes a few lines that could be interpreted to mean God really hates homosexuality and would be inclined to punish it in a bad, fiery way. But in the Old Testament, a bunch of other really disturbing things happen as well, and no one is advocating for those to continue.  

And, most importantly to me, Jesus says nothing about homosexuality. Nothing pro, nothing con.  It doesn’t seem to be an issue to him.

And that, in my opinion, is as it should be. Judging someone on the basis of sexual identity is akin to judging a person on the basis of skin color. Or eye color. Or preferred brand of antiperspirant.

Believing homosexuality is a choice makes absolutely no sense: First why would anyone choose to risk the type of discrimination that’s still heaped on people who happen to be gay? And second, I’m heterosexual. And at no time in puberty or adolescence did I get out a yellow legal pad, write “pros” on one side and “cons” on the other, and decide to be straight.

One more curiosity: Because I was born heterosexual, I was allowed to marry, no questions asked, not one but two men I chose (not at the same time, obviously).  Know what else? Most of the gay couples I know have been committed longer than I’ve been married to my current husband or was married to my first.

“Tolerating” gay people is not enough. A person’s sexual identity should not be a factor in denying him or her basic human rights.

And that's the basis of why gay people need to be allowed to marry. A few additonal pluses: It's all about commitment, which is all kinds of positive.  It will further enhance the security of children born to or adopted by gay parents.  And it sure won’t threaten my marriage. Or yours.

Let me leave you with this:

Not all that many years ago, it was illegal in several states for a white person to marry an African-American one. Some religious groups cited scripture in trying to uphold those decisions, too, saying God considered such unions unnatural and sinful.

(Awkward silence.)

Laws can change.

People can change.

Here’s hoping the Supreme Court does the right thing.

Here's to trench coats that fit ... and remembering what's under all of this

When I was a little girl, a woman named Ann Bradford was our next-door neighbor.  Ann was in her 40s and was a matronly woman with a tight perm and polyester clothes.  I was around middle-school age when Ann showed me a picture of herself as a teenager, and I was stunned to see she had been very pretty.

I wondered for a moment why she had allowed her looks to change so drastically, but then I reasoned, "She's grown up and already has a husband and family. She doesn't have to worry about the way she looks anymore."

As much as it pains me to admit it, I've become Ann Bradford.

That's a little harsh -- I still do my hair every day and put on makeup and wear clean clothes that match. I shower daily and have tidy nails.  But when it comes to my weight, I've given up. It hasn't been intentional, but it's happened.

I'm not the 600-pound woman you see on the TLC specials; I can get out of bed, and my fat doesn't hang out of my pants. But my abdomen is huge. My ankles are puffy. My wrists are fat.  And I wear plus-size clothes. The fact that I'm the smallest plus-size the stores carry doesn't matter.  I can no longer shop in the "regular" women's department.

I can't attribute the weight to anything in particular.  I'm happy.  I love my husband, and my kids are doing well. I have a great job, great friends and a supportive extended family. Sure, the past few years have brought their share of stresses; my dad was sick, and then he died.  I had surgery. I changed employers.

And maybe I used all that as license to eat pancakes and bacon and drink pop and sneak Swiss Cake Rolls before bed. Or maybe I just got lazy.

Whatever the case, it's stopping now.  Well, it's stopping Tuesday.  Nothing magic about the timing; I simply woke up one day last week and knew I was ready.

Twenty years ago, I lost 40 pounds. And as much as I loved the result, I think I loved the discipline more. I ate the same thing every day. I cut out pop and most carbs and sugars. I put a mental barrier between my food and everyone else's.  I threw my kids in a double stroller and walked and walked and walked. And as I started treating myself with the respect I deserved, I felt good and happy and at peace.

Out-of-control eating is fun while it's happening.  Going to Viva la Bamba with my husband and inhaling two baskets of chips and not thinking about the consequences is fun until you look down and see the crumbs and realize what you've done. Or until you go to Kohl's to buy a trench coat and can't find one that zips and allows you to move your arms.

My husband has never seen me thin. He met me about 20 pounds ago, and that speaks volumes for him, as I wasn't thin then, either. I want to do this for me, but another part of me -- the part that knows my husband is a great guy who deserves a wife who's not crabby and angry about her weight -- can't wait for his reaction when he sees what I really look like under all of this.

Sure, I want to make a lifestyle change. I want to get off blood-pressure medicine and be around to enjoy grandkids. I want to be the kind of person who routinely reaches for carrots instead of Swiss Cake Rolls, and I want to kick my Mountain Dew habit for good. But for now, I just want to do this. I want the discipline and the control and the results.

I want my kids to be proud of me.  I want to be proud of me.

It's been a long time coming.  I'm a little scared.  But mostly, I feel something has lifted. I'm no longer just stuck.

Here's to seeing what happens next.

It's one of Iowa's largest, wealthiest cities. But it used to be my little town.

In 1967, this house was on the outskirts of West Des Moines.

Once in a while, if I look out the windows on the west side of the building in which I work, a glimpse of rolling fields and a water tower will take me back to my hometown.

I actually spend my working days here in that hometown, just a few miles south of the houses in which I spent my first two-plus decades. You’d never know it by looking around, though; when I lived in West Des Moines, the area in which I hang my coat now was so far “out in the country” that if I’d happened out this way, I certainly would have gotten lost.

Sometimes, though, if I catch the landscape just right as I heat my burrito or cup of soup, the view out the window is so familiar it takes my breath away.

I was born on Des Moines’ south side, but we moved west in 1967, after my mom passed away.  Our house was the westernmost in the city at that time, on 32^nd and Giles streets, and cornfield bordered our yard on two sides; field mice visited our basement regularly and took up residence in the hide-a-bed, and I remember not being allowed to traipse out into those fields to retrieve my kite.

West Des Moines was home to about 14,000 people then, and in my 4-year-old mind, it consisted of the Li’l Red Barn convenience store, where we bought orange Hi-C by the case, and a tiny Dahl’s on Prospect Avenue.  We went to the Catholic church in “old” or “downtown” West Des Moines, but we never would have ventured there after dark; the church was too close to Fifth Street, which was "rough," I was told.

As funny as it seems to me now, as small as it was, West Des Moines seemed lonely then, and it felt right to a small, lonely girl.  It had discarded its “Valley Junction” moniker less than 30 years before and was still undergoing an identity shift from hardscrabble railroad town to the shiny place it became in the ‘70s. I looked west from our little house, and everything before me seemed very large.

The city quickly ate up all that largeness, though; three years later, we moved two blocks to the west and again, our house was the westernmost home in the city. My world expanded to include my school, Kiburz Drug Store and a few other places, and “old” West Des Moines -- despite its proximity to the dreaded Fifth Street -- was warm and welcoming as I began to make friends at school with girls who lived there. I’d occasionally be invited to their homes, and we’d walk to Legion Park to play on the swings.

Fifth Street itself, though, with its music and mayhem, was still off-limits. After hearing someone use the term “ladies of the evening” in conjunction with the area, I asked my very proper grandmother what that meant.  She sputtered a bit, then told me they were “girls who get all dressed up and go on dates with lots of men.”  I thought that sounded like a fine thing to be able to see.

I must have been in first or second grade when my city truly began to grow up. Thirty-fifth Street , the gravel road Valley High School sat on, received a thick coat of black tar, and then the pavement came. The late-night drag-racing stopped, and new homes – four-bedroom two-stories, all – sprung up between our place on 34^thand Brookview and the brand-new freeway.  And Northwestern Bell brought our city its very own newfangled telephone prefix: “225,” which was long confused with Des Moines’ “255” and resulted in years upon years of misdialed numbers.

Retail excitement came in the form of a whole new mall when I was 12; I begged for Levi 501 corduroy pants from County Seat and Earth Shoes from Baker’s.   We moved again, a few blocks east this time, to a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood; a boy at school made me cry by telling me, “My parents said they can’t believe your parents spent $90,000 on a house.”

My friends and I hung out at Skate West and partnered with sweaty-palmed boys for the Couples in the Moonlight skate. We wore new bikinis to Holiday Pool and held onto our tops as we jumped off the low diving board. We bought cherry-coated vanilla cones from Dairy Queen on 19^th Street begged to be allowed to eat – “just kids, no parents” – at the Pizza Hut on Grand.

I kissed a neighbor boy in a house under construction; it was nothing at that time to sneak into one after dark because our city was growing up even more, and new houses were everywhere.  I remember the smell of the wood and the thrill of the late hour – maybe 9:45 on a school night? He gave me a necklace with the Virgin Mary on it and a mood ring, and we still have lunch once in a while, that West Des Moines boy and me. I just ran into his wife and gave her a big hug last weekend.

Around the time I was wearing corduroys and mood rings, Fifth Street stopped being off-limits; I was a Betty Hill dancer, and we bought our tights and leotards at a magical place Betty owned. The Theatrical Shop smelled like new tap shoes and stage makeup, and if “ladies of the evening” still hung out down there, at least they had somewhere handy to buy their feather boas.

High school came, and with it my driver’s license and the opportunity to explore my little town via Chevy station wagon.  I became interested in photography and drove “way out into the country” – 50^th and Ashworth – to find barns to photograph. Dahl’s grew larger, and new grocery stores opened “out west.”  We watched new subdivisions crop up, each one more exclusive than the last, until finally, a gated community came to town. 

By the time I was charged with raising my own kids, random circumstances had landed me in another part of town, and I put down roots there. But my work and extended family bring me back to West Des Moines most days of the week, so I’ve never really missed it.

But on days like this one, when I look out the office window and see open space, I remember. I’m far less small now, and far less lonely.  But in my mind’s eye, there are cornfields on two sides of me, and I’m trying to keep my kite from falling into the tall, tall stalks as I think about behaving well enough to be taken to the Red Barn to buy an Archie comic book.

And I’ll fall asleep reading it, at home in my small town, to the sound of drag-racers revving their engines on the gravel of 35^th Street.

"Older worker"? Not sure how I became one, but here's what it feels like.

It struck me the other day during my performance review: I am an “older worker.”

My manager, in the midst of graciously complimenting an aspect of my performance, remarked offhandedly about the benefits wrought by experience in the workplace. (To be fair, she also discussed the great things younger workers bring to the table, but I focused in on the remarks that applied to me.) What she was basically saying was that it’s great to have a team comprised of employees who bring different strengths and experiences to the table, and I agree.

But it gave me pause to realize that I’m closer to retirement than nearly anyone else on my team. I’ve never “felt my age,” whatever that means, but the numbers don’t lie.

When I began my career, at 22, I was a quick study with a great foundation and the best boss a person could have asked for.  Bill was a few years my senior and was tough; remember that really scary teacher you had in grade school, the one who ended up pushing you to reach your full potential, then becoming your friend in adulthood when you finally realized how amazing she was?  That was Bill.  And because he focused more on being my mentor than my friend, he turned out a darned good reporter.

Because I tended to learn pretty quickly, I was able to participate in some pretty high-level assignments, and the phrase “does a great job for her age and experience” was bandied about every now and again.  I loved that I was holding my own against older reporters, covering and even breaking some stories across the state.  I loved working, and I loved that time in my life.

Then, of course, I grew older, and no longer was I anyone’s wunderkind. I took my career in a different direction, becoming a corporate communicator.  Since my 20s, I’ve worked for four companies, each progressively larger than the one before, and I’ve been surrounded at each by co-workers of all ages.

But depending on the company, the unspoken attitudes toward “workers of a certain age” has seemed to vary. One company was known for plying workers 55 and older with early-retirement packages that weren’t necessarily desired, but were too good to refuse. Another company seemed older-worker-friendly – it hired a pal of mine when she was in her late 50s – and yet when a gentleman I know there turned 50, he refused to tell anyone his age for fear it would impact others’ perceptions of him. 

I get that there are reasons companies like hiring younger workers; businesses have bottom lines to adhere to, and it simply costs less to hire younger workers – ones who are often just as competent as their older counterparts. And depending on a company's benefits package, it may cost more to insure us. So skewing its workforce toward the young end is a win-win for companies, right?

Not so fast.

According to the U.S. Department of Labor, the proportion of older workers – those 55 and older -- will increase steadily from 12 percent in 2000 to 20 percent in 2025. Why is that? Primarily because people are living longer and need the money. But it also seems that many of us continue to like working as much as we ever did, and we realize that in a lot of ways, it’s good for us.

And best of all, it’s good for our bosses.

As my manager mentioned, older workers bring invaluable skills to the table; we may not be “digital natives,” but most of us began using computers in college, so we’ve been tech-savvy for our entire adult lives.  And some may argue that because we haven’t had the lifetime benefit of computer-assisted communication, our interpersonal skills are stronger; before we learned to text, we learned to talk.  And unless we were Prince – who is 54 now, by the way – we wrote in complete sentences, without a symbol in sight: For me, “your” has never been, and never will be, represented with “ur.”

We arrived for our first job interviews with briefcases and, if we were female, wearing pantyhose and heels.  We all wore suits, and we hand-wrote thank-you notes to our interviewers.  We didn’t think in terms of “perks” a job could offer us; we sat down at our desks and tried really hard to contribute. 

As my dad was inclined to respond whenever I complained about a job, “Heh heh heh.  That’s why they call it ‘work.’” Older workers have grown up with the attitude, often driven into us by our Depression-era parents and grandparents, that a job is something to be thankful for.  That’s not to say countless people my age are not visionaries who have struck out on their own; I’m just saying that we learned to be thankful for the advantages extended to us by virtue of employment.  

That’s not to say that our ways remain the “best” ways. From my younger co-workers, I’ve learned working remotely, from the comfort of my kitchen table with my dog at my heels, can allow me to be every bit as productive – or more so – than I am when I’m in the office in heels. I’ve learned the best day is a jeans day – not because wearing denim really transforms anything, but because it has a way of encouraging folks to relax.

I’ve learned that generation that’s grown up with social media is a connected generation, and, Facebook and Twitter junkie that I am, I’ve learned that the keyboard is the great age-equalizer.  No one sees my gray roots when I tweet; all they see is that I’m commenting on and contributing to a big, vibrant world.

From me, I hope my younger co-workers have learned a thing or two as well.  Above all, I’m hoping they’ve learned to relax and realize that although that big project may have been derailed today, things won’t look nearly as bad next week. I hope they’ve learned that nothing can take the place of a solid communications foundation: If you’re articulate and can converse fluidly with the written word as well, others will regard you more highly in the workplace than if you don’t take spelling and grammar seriously.

I hope they’ve learned not to be afraid to speak up and offer an unproven idea; after all, the person who hired you likely did so because you have a good brain, and he or she wants to hear what you think.   I hope they’ve learned that even though casual dress is great, there is no reason – ever – to wear Budweiser t-shirts and flip-flops to the office, unless it’s a home office. (Sorry. Respect your employer. Period.)  

And I hope they’ve learned that caring about their co-workers – and allowing their co-workers to care about them back – is an important part of what makes a workplace cohesive and functional.

I took a business trip last week and met a woman who is a few years my senior. She’s a leader in the company and has, in addition to tremendous expertise, a head of silver hair. During a break in our meeting, I told her I admired her hair and asked how long ago she’d stopped coloring it.  “I’ve never colored it,” she responded.  “Why would I?”  It occurred to me then that in my jobs with previous employers, silver heads were few and fair between.

I saw a few more of them this morning as I walked to the cafeteria, and one more as I visited the guard desk to have my badge reset. Also today I heard co-workers talking about adult children and about grandchildren, and I witnessed such comments as, “I’m too old to drive in this snow.” And upon hearing that, workers of other ages laughed and agreed, and no one seemed to think a thing about what the older person said -- except that it’s not fun driving in snow, no matter how old you are.

It's a good time to be 50.  As I ease into "older workerhood" and am made to feel as valued as I feel at this moment, I’m very pleased to be where I am.

After two decades, I still don't know how to parent. But tomorrow is a new day.

We all have parenting moments about which we're not proud.  I had one recently, and it's humbling in that I thought I had learned enough over the years that I'd know better.

Guess what.  I didn't.

Here's the story: Since she was little, my daughter has wanted to, as she put it at age 9, "own (her) own show choir."  Through a great deal of hard work over the years and a large number of opportunities given to her by some gracious people, she's been on her way to doing just that. (OK, not owning one, per se, but directing one.)

So when she called a couple of weeks ago and said she's delaying her plans so she can take another job, it was clear that I hadn't read Parenting for Dummies, because my reaction was 100 percent wrong. And the sad thing is, when you have one of those moments, there's no such thing as a do-over.

It's not as if Caroline has decided to delay her plans because she's going to work at Dunkin' Donuts or spend time "finding herself."  After she graduates from Drake in May, she's going to work for a national nonprofit as a leadership consultant, gaining and honing valuable skills as she travels across the country.

Of hundreds of applicants for the job, she was one of only 10 young women selected, so there was, and is, much to celebrate. She'll travel for a year, and when she returns, she'll apply for teaching jobs.

Great news, right?  Only I didn't celebrate.  I reacted as though she had hurt me personally. I was decidedly underwhelmed.  Every "Of course I'm proud of you" was followed by a "but." I threw up roadblocks and warned of dire scenarios.  By the end of the phone call -- one during which Caroline assumed she would receive her mother's unconditional support -- she was crying.

The whole time, I knew I was reacting badly.  But I couldn't stop myself.

Pathetically, I was making the decision all about me. As difficult as it is to admit this, I've enjoyed the music-related parts of Caroline's life as much as she has, or even more than she has.  You've seen hockey dads? Baseball dads?  For many years, I've been a Music Mom, and I guess I'd allowed myself to believe my daughter's accomplishments had somehow constituted a reflection of me.

Cognitively, of course, I've known that's not true; anyone who knows Caroline is well aware of her independence and drive. Our in-joke is that she can't just be a part of an organization; she has to run it.  Sure, I gave birth to her and made sure she was fed, clothed and sheltered, but everything else has been all her.

So when she began to accomplish things on her own, I probably allowed myself to become too wrapped up in them. Sure, they weren't about me -- but I had raised her, and involvement was one of the perks. And how great was it that she had decided to concentrate on music, one of my great loves?  When she decided she was going to become a music teacher, my joy could not have been more complete.

But then the other opportunity came along, and she decided to take it. And although I'd raised my children to make their own decisions, I found myself upset and confused.  "What do you mean you're going to switch gears, Caroline?" I asked. What I really meant was, "I've been counting on this. And it's clearly all about me."

It wasn't, of course.  But that's the way I reacted. And I'm ashamed.

Fortunately, it didn't take me long to realize how ridiculously I was behaving, and to tell my daughter how sorry I was for my lack of support.  She and her brother both have been blessed with a tendency toward graciousness, and she seems to have forgiven me. But like all those other crappy parenting moments we wish we could undo, this one will hang around.

Webster's defines humility as "the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one's own importance or rank." Could it really be that it's taken me 24 years of motherhood to realize that simply because I gave birth to two humans doesn't mean they are of me and about me?

When I was 21, I had my own dreams, and I was given the freedom to make my own mistakes and relish my own triumphs. My kids deserve the same opportunities.

As a part-apology and part-celebration, I gave Caroline a gift today: a charm for her Pandora bracelet. It's a tiny suitcase to represent the road she'll be taking for the next year, and I gave it happily and with no emotional strings attached.

What I really want that gift to say is, "Congratulations for refusing to listen to your mother, and choosing to live for yourself." She comes from a line of strong women; how silly of me to ever have expected anything else.

Bon voyage, Caroline.  I'll be here when you fall, and I'll be here when you triumph.  As always, my money is wholly on the latter.