I just want to be a cool adult to my kids because this mothering thing is killing me. Though I don’t mind that love for them pours spontaneously from deep in my soul every morning to noon and the whole day through, I’m tired of waiting for my Millennials to see this all too familiar face as someone worth knowing, not just a middle-aged, out of touch worrywart.

It’s as if they already know what I’m selling and have figured out how to skip the commercial. My 21-year-old son, a little critter no more, sees me as a patronizing ignoramus most of the time. How dare I expect a return phone call, let alone a response to my email? I’m going to be there on the other end until the end, bothering him anyway, he figures, so why let me into his life whenever I want? And don’t even think about asking him his friends’ names or what his weekend plans are anymore, because, in his mind, how could I relate? To him, I’m good for a pair of shoes, 20 bucks in the mail and underwear.