One of the many things I can’t forget about 9/11 is my mother calling me. Eleven years later and I finally understand the frantic in her voice.
We took the boys out of the country for vacation. When you’re a parent and talk about family vacation, especially after the trip and to other parents, you always get this question, asked in a hushed voice, as if the person is asking after a sick relative. “How were the boys?”
Bitching about this is a #firstworldproblem, an alternate version of “My latte was too cold” or “My golf bag doesn’t have room to hold twelve beers.” But getting a passport for a small child is a colossal pain in the ass.