On her birthday, my first daughter wished we meet at the mall, together with her middle sister and the one responsible for all of this: my Fotomann. According to a theory, mothers must celebrate the days in which they have given birth to new lives. This grants me five birthdays a year. Fabulous!

An ice cream, quite a bit of shopping… Merry moments together. Making me truly happy!!

My two daughters complimented me. How chic I am dressed… The blouse matching the jacket… What a cute color for my pochette!… Giving me the strange feeling that it was ‘then’ when they’ve seen me for the first time. Were they marveling, discretely, to notice that they shouldn’t feel embarrassed with me in public?

My age – double than my daughter’s – didn’t add a iota of frustration to my attitude. No melancholy either. At all! I was living the pleasant happening when ‘girls meet at the mall.’ Oh, yes, the Fotomann was around too.

So, to recap, at her age now, I had her. Interesting. Mom had me when she was twenty-five too. But her granddaughter shows no signs of hurry. Good for her! She lives in another world, another century, another millennium!

Cognitive philology, philosophy, psychology, and other linguistic aspects of life look more appealing to her than the making of a family. And I say that she is right. Especially at her age.

My parents made huge sacrifices to have their daughters overcome their social status. Her parents have shifted the paradigm even further. This is what I safely call evolution: parents primarily living for advancing their offspring.

I have chosen this path willingly and completely. I am glad I did. By the ineffable works of love.

On the sidelines, I’m off to do some role playing. Old and young: the hooker game; ecstatic swingers; Thor, a he or a she?; the bunnies in the cougar; sitting on his face.

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