One of the nicest parts of living in my hometown is that people will sporadically come up to me and ask,

“Are you Big or Little?”

“I am Big,” I tell them.

My mother wrote a column in the Grand Forks Herald for ten years.  Just as I call my boys by their ages instead of their names, my little sister, Erica, was deemed “Little,” and I was “Big.”  The column came to its conclusion when Big, a giant pain in the ass, became embarrassed by the storytelling at the age of 13 and insisted her mother stop writing about her. 

I actually remember the column that did it.  It was my birthday, and I wanted to rent a limo and drive my friends around town, which was basically the sexiest thing you could do as a teenager in the early 90’s (or as a 45-year-old in 2025).  My mom recounted our conversation exactly as it happened, except that she swapped out the limo for a private jet.

“I DID NOT WANT A PRIVATE JET,” I told her, braces a-spittin’ and frizzy hair a-frizzin’.  “THAT’S WAAAY EMBARRASSING.”

“It’s not the vehicle that’s important,” my mom told me.  “It’s the conversation around it.”

“I should at least get the limo,” I said, crossing my arms, because I did not get a limo rental for my 13^th birthday.

“Good luck with that,” she said.

“Fine, then you can’t write about me anymore,” I huffed.

So, she stopped.

Last month, 32 years after that conversation, I wrote my first column for the Grand Forks Herald.  I’ll be writing every other week on life in North Dakota, and my mark of success will be someone coming up to my children in 2065 to let them know that my words resonated enough that they remember them long after I’m done stringing the letters together.

I’ve put the first paragraphs of my first two stories in the Herald down below in the news.  The Herald is running a subscription special right now – it’s $2 for 6 months – if you want to read them in full.

In the meantime, I thought I’d share one of my mom’s last columns with you – entitled, “The dreaded thirteen is not so dreadful,” which turned out to be such a hopeful lie.  When you get to the part about Henry the Eighth, feel free to roll your eyes out of your head as I did because my gosh, I was such just SO MUCH, wasn’t I.  So, so much.

Enjoy (and love you, Mom!).

The dreaded thirteen is not so dreadful, by Robin Silverman

Steve was working late, so the girls and I decided to take in an early movie.  “One adult and two children, please,” I said to the cashier.  She raised one eyebrow cynically, gazing at Big.  “TWO children?”

I nodded; Big shook her head.  “Yep, I said.  “She won’t be 13 for another week.”

“I am 13, Mom, I’m not a child anymore,” Big scolded as we stood in line for popcorn.

“Not so fast,” I insisted.  “You still have seven days, 14 hours and 34 minutes.”

“But you always used to say I was 12 when I was really only 11 and ½.”

“That was then.  I’m a lot smarter now,” I sighed. “Stay a child as long as you can.

I truly thought I was giving her good advice.  Thirteen meant trading freedom for responsibility, innocence for maturity.  Both, I knew, could produce more headaches than heartbeats.  I was only doing what I had instinctively done since her birth: Protecting her from possible harm.

Yet, somewhere not so far back in my mind, I was nagged by the thought that I was merely trying to protect myself.  As the mother of a teenager, I officially signed off the era of bedtime stories and spontaneous cuddles.  And even though Little has a few years before her 13th birthday, she has learned to keep pace with her big sister, adopting not only her clothes and her taste in music, but many of her attitudes.

It’s been hard to think of saying goodbye to the playfulness of their childhood.  I have a picture of Big in my office that sums it up: She’s 8 years old, dressed in one of Steve’s suits.  As he and I sat on the front steps sipping iced tea after work one day, Big quietly slipped upstairs and donned his office attire, including his socks, shoes, and tie.  In the picture, she’s holding up one pant leg with one hand, struggling with his briefcase and jacket sleeve with the other and laughing as she tries to blow her forever unruly bangs out of her eyes.  It’s my favorite picture of her.

In fact, I still have the urge to go from room to room in the house, looking under beds and behind closets for that little imp.  I describe her to Big all the time, as though I expect that if she joins me in my search, we will find my little girl.

“Remember ‘Are You My Mother?’”  I asked once.  “You’d be the baby bird and I played all the animals.”

“Um, Mom, that was years ago,” she reminded me.  “I just finished ‘The Eight Wives of Henry the Eighth.’  Now I’m ready for some Shakespeare.”

Although I’m sure I’m the same person who gave birth to this child just a handful of years ago, her age betrays me.  If Big is 13, I have to admit that I’m not as young as I like to think I am.  When I tell a new acquaintance that I have a teenage daughter, I can almost hear him or her mentally summing me up: “Well, I guess that makes her 40 or so.”  For the past several decades, 40 has been my mother’s age, not mine.  So now, instead of “You look great!”  I expect to hear, “Gee, you look pretty good for someone your age.”

Then there are the warnings my friends with sons have been issuing for the past 13 years.  “Sure, girls are easier as babies,” they said.  “But just wait until she’s a teenager.  Boys are so much simpler.  She’ll argue with you and stay out late.  She’ll be moody and impossible all the time.”

I know I was an awkward jangle of limbs and emotions during adolescence, and now I’m trying to remember if my mother’s hair suddenly turned gray or if she ever threatened to put a padlock on my bedroom door.  I don’t think so.  Big and I always enjoy a close, fun-filled relationship.  Would it go sour overnight?

When I took her shopping as a toddler, I would sing her favorite songs to keep her content.  Now, if I so much as start to hum in public, she hisses, “Quit it, Mom!  You’re so embarrassing!”  This, from the baby I once kissed 50 times as I strolled down the cereal aisle of the grocery store.  Just recently, without thinking, I put my arm around her on our way into that same grocery story.  She squirmed away and ran ahead.

But the thought that worries me the most is that if Big is 13, she is more than two-thirds of the way to 18, the age at which she’ll leave home.  For 4,748 nights, give or take a few, I have kissed her dark curls goodnight and tucked her toes back under the covers before I turned out my own light.  I simply cannot imagine finishing my day without her.

My mind knows that Big is 13, I am 40-ish, that childhood doesn’t last forever and that children are supposed to grow up and leave home.  The problem is that my heart hasn’t learned the lesson.  Deep inside, I believe that my first born is still wearing her “Kindergarten today – tomorrow the world!” T-shirt; that I, too, will be young forever, and that we will always live and be close.  But there is an echo in those sentimental chambers: “Where did the time go?” On Friday, Big turned 13.  She’s still talking to me, and my hair’s still brown.  So far, so good.

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The photo above is the photograph my mom described in her column.

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This week on North Dakota Today we talked about about Kristie and Hod Schurman’s grandchildren, my Nice People of the Week, as well as a new business coming to Fargo that is already helping out area pups. (Valley News Live)

Here’s the first paragraph of my first column: Back in the early 1960s of Grand Forks, when Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy both spoke on the University of North Dakota campus and the South Forks Plaza was readying to open its doors as the region’s first indoor shopping mall, downtown Grand Forks held a one-day sidewalk clearance sale called Crazy Day. Read more. (Grand Forks Herald)

Here’s the first paragraph of my second column: Once a week, my husband, Kyle, dutifully carries a folding rocking chair to a shady spot beneath the trees in Bringewatt Park so that I can watch him and a handful of our friends play volleyball as a part of the Choice Sand Volleyball League. Read more. (Grand Forks Herald)

How many times did you see the video of that dad rescue a boy walking on the monorail at Hershey Park?  A million?  Guess what?  He’s from Fargo. (Fargo Forum)

I guess you could say this was a HAM-SOME donation. (Valley News Live)

Speaking of donations, this gift by Duane Brekke keeps on giving. (KFYR TV)

It’s Suicide Prevention Month. Take advantage of the beautiful weather by participating in one of North Dakota’s Out of the Darkness Walks.  You can find a list of them at Oops Only Good News.(Oops Only Good News)

Love car rallies?  How about Hot Air Balloon Rallies? (KFYR TV)

The Magic Pathway was designed in celebration of and for use by Minot’s Myron and Shirley Thompson and their grandson, Palmer, who has spina bifida. (KFYR TV)

Congratulations Northern Cass Public School, Schroeder Middle School, and Burlington-Des Lacs Elementary School for being named “Blue Ribbon Schools!” (Fargo Forum)

Speaking of school, kids in Grand Forks walk or bike to school more than the national average. (Grand Forks Herald)

I’ve written about this many times before, but I do love me a good Halloween decoration. (Facebook)

Grand Forks’ Niska Kempenich has taken 1st place in the 103rd Southwestern Association for Indian Arts. (Public Art ND)

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