My mother lives with us. My mother lives with US. My MOTHER lives with us. The emphasis is true either way. She puts up with our crazy, our loud, our early, our cries, our pouts, our forget-to-knocks, our short-tempers, our long days, our packed schedules, our don’t-have-time-to-talks, our interruptions, our brisk attitudes. My kids call her GiGi.

We worry the crap out of her. She’s done this parenting thing already. And while so much about parenting has changed since my brother and I were young, her ability to love through it all hasn’t. Also, she’s still pretty good at reminding you of all the ways in which the world can be mean right before you leave to go pick up a pizza.