The thing I’m most proud of is that my kids call. Not because they have to, or even just because they need something. Nope. They call to talk politics and to tell me about a new song they heard—most of the time I hate it but I still listen. One likes death metal and the other likes Bruno Mars—you can’t win ‘em all. Sometimes, they call me to talk about food. Food they’ve eaten, or made or bought or seen. None of us really care. We just love food. The daughter calls more than the son and I understand that—it’s the way it goes. But they both call. I lost my dad in my thirties and my mom in my forties and life as an orphan is not my fave. In fact, it’s kinda awful. But my kids make it better. Their calls make it better. And I am so so proud that they want to. That we have cobbled a close family. Now if I could just get them to call each other and their grandma I’d be the winner of parenting. That’s a thing right?