Summers in Chicago are scorching hot. The thick humidity wraps around you like an inescapable fleece blanket and the sun's heat makes everything an untouchable hot, making any air-conditioned place the only place to be. My mom would patiently wait for the precise moment when the last rays of the cruel sun would dip behind the highest point of the horizon to corral us into our maroon Astro van.

in the beginning of my final fall semester at Columbia College, I believe that God told me I was rushing through school. You can understand how hard to believe this was when you take into consideration the fact that I was going on 31 years old, and had been at Columbia for six years already. That’s four moves, a new house, and two kids worth of time. But I felt it, I knew inside that I needed to stop rushing, because I was going faster than I needed to be. So what did I do?

My daughter doesn’t like it when I’m too affectionate with her. It stunts her independence so she squirms like a wiggly worn out of my grasp if I hold on for a moment too long.

My mom hates cooking. Seriously.

There are no days that she slaves over the stove just for the thrill of it. And yet, she has had these crazy, unexplained, completely erratic-yet-phenomenon moments of joyful cooking.

These are, in my experience, essential rules for being a worthy and respected adult now-a-days. You're welcome to go off course, but you most likely won't have very many fans. And we all need people to like us, right?