I wish one of you would go to the grocery store with me to physically prevent me from buying the avocados I never seem to eat before they rot.
Consider the opening:
MY three vegetarian, activist, urban, multi-degreed, agnostic, adult children have rejected Christmas as a consumerist sham of a holiday, one in which they will not be participating. Oh, they’ll take the day off and drink organic wine, but they won’t be buying presents, putting up a tree, baking cookies, lighting candles or decking any halls. There will be no taking of a family picture for their card and no sending of that card or any other.
My parents didn’t have a Christmas tree this year. When I visited for Thanksgiving, my mother gingerly broached the subject.
“How would you feel…if we didn’t have a tree?”
I proclaim this woman, whose essay appeared in the New York Times, to be one part brave and two parts absolutely insanely foolhardy.
I decided to do my prenatal appointments and delivery at the French military hospital, Bouffard. The anesthesiologist did little to reassure me.
“Sign this,” he said in French, sliding a piece of paper across the desk. “It says you have considered the risks of giving birth in Djibouti, that we can’t medevac you out, and that you understand there are no proper neonatal pediatricians and no neonatal care in the country.”
I gulped and skimmed the paper, which also explained that, should I need a Caesarean, he would perform it.
“I recommend you go to France,” he said. “Or Dubai.”
I shook my head. “My husband is an English professor, and the university will already be in session. I can’t do it alone.”
What do you think?