Beware the Ides of March

I can always tell when a boy has broken a girl's heart. She arrives in the clinic toward the end of the lunch period, born upon her friends' linked arms, my girl leaning heavily on their support. Her friends' faces hang slack with the stricken look that much later in their lives will be reserved for news of a friend's cancer. Today is the Ides of March; more importantly, it is about six weeks before our prom. A few months ago mere tea and sympathy would have sufficed, but (with only 6 weekends between Jenny and a dateless prom) today's situation demands a full panic attack. Perhaps girls have always found emotional relief with great hiccupping gulps of snot and air, but these torrents used to be exercised in their very own bedroom, I think. There, a mother at least had an opportunity to rush in with armfuls of warmth and encouragement targeted to meet her daughters' needs. Whether the mothers only cried in tandum or counseled revenge, they had the chance to build a shared history and pass down the wisdom of women. Of course, so much has changed, but I can't help but be a little wistful.













































Frederick Douglass said "It is easier to build strong children than repair broken men."

Hello, dear.

I am as invisible as one can be and still be paid by your child's school system. Certainly your child doesn't know my given name, and odds are that even my principal would refer to me only as "the clinic lady." Don't you think there is a charm--maybe even a timeless quality--to that?

I want you to know that I look out for your children in my own quiet way. Frankly, I am a little worried about some of them.