Decades apart, these individuals unknowingly impacted the way I interact with the children in my life
She always asked how I was doing, and told me to remind her how old I was —“My, I can’t believe you’re already in second grade!” She seemed genuinely interested in the musings of an eight-year-old chatterbox.
When my mother brought me to work, we’d have to take two subways to get to Midtown Manhattan. My mother’s stock brokerage firm was on Broadway, amid the hustle and bustle of the city, with vendors hawking their knockoff imitations from China right in front of stores like Gucci and Prada.
Clad in a smart suit and a leather shoulder bag, with her coffee in hand from her favorite vendor and sensible heels on her feet, Mommy epitomized “grown-up-hood” to me. I didn’t think I’d ever grow up enough to be a grown-up.
We’d wish the guard a good morning and enter the classy building, trying to guess which of the six elevators would come first. Mommy would remind me to use my library voice, and up to the 22nd floor we’d go, ensconced in the glass elevator (with a few laser-like glances from Mommy when she thought I was talking too loudly).
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