Turning Points
December 15, 2005
Grow Up Already!
I got married and moved out on my own when I was 18 years old. I spent four years in college and graduated when I was 22. I got divorced shortly after that, then I met a new guy and had a baby. Got married again. Got divorced again. Worked my ass off at a job I hated for four years to support myself and my daughter. Fell in love and moved halfway across the world to live in Sweden. Got married a third time (it's the charm, right?). Turned 30. Bought a house. Had a couple more kids. So, you see, I've done a lot of "grown-up" things in my life. Read more.
The Bright Side
by Marian Klatt
Some mornings I take my charge out into the cold, cold winter, and we walk the ten terrible feet to the car. Huddled in the warmth of the gasping old car, the youngun shouts his new word, "Car! Car!" which I agree with. We travel to the bookstore, where we brave the parking lot on foot, occasionally breaking into a toddler-paced run. Inside, we make a path straight to the cafe. I snag a magazine as we zip past the endless racks--what will it be today? Not-so-Cottage Living? Crochet Your Way to Happiness?--and then indulge in our individual delights. (He: vanilla biscotti. Me: Verona blend, tall.) I put in sugar, but cream only if the barista isn't looking. (I always say I don't want room for cream, but then I like to add a drop or two if I can. But who really needs three inches for cream?) Read more.
On the Track
by Deirdre Abrahamsson
Turning points can come in many forms: an unexpected event or occurrence, a decision made, a change in plans. One of the biggest turning points in my life came with a simple sign posted on the wall outside the cafeteria in my high school that said: "Girls' Indoor Track Team meeting next Tuesday." Read more.
Gotta Light?
Like most Americans, I started driving with a permit when I was fifteen years old. At sixteen I got my license and the road belonged to me. I'm horrible with directions and finding new locations, but for the most part I really like driving. When I moved to Sweden six years ago I was allowed to drive on my American license for just one year before I would have to pass the test for a Swedish driver's license. I didn't foresee any problems because by that time I'd been driving for thirteen years. I was an old pro... or so I thought. Read more.
It's the Little Things
by Heather McConnaughy
We all think of turning points as the big things in life such as marriage, pregnancy, graduation, buying a home, or even getting our driver's license. But what about all those small things that shape our lives when we're not looking? Read more.
Baby, You Can Drive My Car
One of the more frustrating things about my move to Sweden has been the process of getting a Swedish driver's license. Now I've heard plenty of gripes about the DMV in my day (and had more than a few myself), but I'm here to tell you that even the worst DMV office in the States has got nothing on its Swedish counterpart, Vägverket. Immigrants to Sweden from other EU-member states, Switzerland, and Japan are allowed to trade in their old driver's licenses for a Swedish one, but those of us hailing from elsewhere have to start from scratch and jump through all the hoops before we can be approved as legally-licensed drivers. And, oh, what hoops they are. Read more.
Lessons in Love
What if I'd married the first man who told me he loved me too fast? He told me after just a few weeks of going steady, my junior year in high school. He told me he could see us getting married, having kids. He joined a Bible study group and a choir because I was in them, despite his authority-snubbing long hair and worship of hard rock. He wrote nice things about me in the school paper and took me to dances. The thing is, I'm pretty sure even now that he was sincere and not just trying to get into my strait-laced choirgirl pants. Read more.
Holding Gemma
by Marjorie Doe
Gemma was a very difficult infant. She was inconsolable most of the time. She cried, shrieked, yelled, and arched her back with anger for many months. She hated to be touched, hated being kissed, hated nursing, hated being next to me in sleep, and pretty much hated life. She was one bitch of a baby much of the time. Read more.
A Nighmare on Oak Street
I can't call my mom, I can't call my mom, I can't call my mom. . . I mentally chanted the words over and over, wanting to do nothing more than grab the phone, take it into a dark closet, and beg my mom to come rescue me from my first and only slumber party. Read more.