“A little girl came home from school with a drawing she'd made in class.She danced into the kitchen ,where her mother was preparing dinner."Mom,guess what ?" she squealed waving the drawing .her mother never looked up."what"? she said ,tending to the pots."guess what?" the child repeated ,waving the drawings."what?" the mother said , tending to the plates."Mom, you're not listening""sweetie,yes I am""Mom" the child said "you're not listening with your EYES”

“You're a punk?''What?''What do they call people from the eighties?' I asked.'Oh,' she laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. 'I'm my mother, actually. I mean, these are her clothes from High School. I guess I should tell people I'm Cyndi Lauper though, or something, because dressing up as your mother is pretty lame.''I almost dressed up as my mother,' I said, 'but I was worried what my therapist would say.'She laughed again, and I realized that she thought I was joking. It was probably for the best, since telling her the second half of my mom costume - a giant fake butcher knife through the head - would probably freak her out.”

“She looked at me for a second and said, "Oh, never mind. I guess it's true what Mom said? That you've led a sheltered life?"I said I thought the description fairly apt.”

“How often a mother initiated a conversation with her child was not predictive of the language outcomes—what mattered was, if the infant initiated, whether the mom responded.”

“Hello, Bradley,' said Mom. She'd regained her composure after my outburst, and now raised her camera. 'Stand close.''No, Mom,' I said. 'No pictures.''But you're friend's here now,' she said, waving us together. 'Smile!''I don't need a picture with-' the flash snapped '-another guy. That's great, Mom, thank you. Send that one to Dad and tell him we're going steady.”

“I glance at Mom. She looks pained. I know she doesn't care what I wear to lunch, but she doesn't want to contradict her mother. Actually, that's not quite true. Mom will go against Nana's wisheds where big enormous things are concerned, like who she marries and what kind of house she lives in. But when it comes to these smaller things- my appearance at lunch when Nana comes over- Mom often gives in. I do not understand this. I think these little things are supposed to be peace offerings, but for what? For running a boardinghouse or for something else, some adult thing I am not part of?~pgs 20-21; Hattie on growing up and mothers”