Author of The Sparrow Sisters
My sister is visiting with her daughter, Lily. A more lithesome, light and lovely girl you couldn’t conjure–unless you grew up with Liza, her mother, who very nearly floated through her first 16 years on long legs and pointe shoes. Now, before those of you who know me too well roll your eyes and take bets on how long before Liza and I cross the Rubicon of sisterhood and kill each other, let me just tell you this; I have not stopped laughing since she got here.
In the mornings, after everyone has gone to school, I make my way through the house. I pick clothes up off the floor, stack notebooks, flush toilets and yes, make beds. Now, while it’s true that my children make their own beds, I remake them. I wonder if, when they are in their rooms at the end of the day, they look at their beds and marvel at how the duvets are smooth and unruffled, the pillows piled just so. Do they think, damn, I make a fine bed? Do they silently thank me for my controlling ways? Probably not.