My baby girl just graduated from preschool. I know, its not Berkley or Columbia, but it is the first step. Admittedly, I didnt get all worked up as we counted down to the big day. I did, however, dress nice for the occasion, bring my camera and make sure my husband had flowers in hand (because God forbid someone got a bouquet and she didnt).

My dad is old school. Growing up, the division of labor in our household was gendered. Mom sewed, did the dishes and laundry, cooked and cleaned. Dad worked at a paper mill and maintained the structural integrity of the house (though sometimes his shortcuts–often involving duct tape–did more to compromise it).

I shouldve known how Mothers Day was going to go based on how it began. You have to do everything I say because its Mothers Day, I told my husband as I crawled out of bed. Why? Youre not my mother.

Before I had my daughter, I remember cringing every time I heard a parent say the word playdate. Like silent birth and attachment parenting, it sounded a little too new-wave and high maintenance. When I was growing up, silent births happened when a woman screamed so loudly she lost her voice, and attachment parenting was more aptly named you cant say No to your child. Likewise, we never had playdates. When the neighbor kids knocked on the door, Mom didnt offer them handmade cupcakes on coordinating napkins. In fact, they werent even allowed inside.