Believe it or not, there was a time when I didn t know what binge watching was. While our Navy family was stationed in Germany, we felt lucky that American Forces Network aired day-old episodes of “Survivor” and “American Idol.” The rest of the time, we entertained ourselves with middle-of-the-night football broadcasts, quirky BBC shows and strange AFN public service announcements.
By LISA SMITH MOLINARI | Special to Stars and Stripes | Published: May 7, 2021 After eight hours of labor, a sort of delirium set in. My conscious brain was no longer in control. I fell into a sleep-like stupor between contractions, as if my body insisted on resting up for what was ahead. When each contraction began, I regained minimal consciousness, just enough to grip the hospital bed rail and attempt to breathe through the pain. I refused pain meds, not out of bravery, but of fear. It was the mid-’90s, and we were stationed in Monterey, Calif., where the “crunchy” nurses who taught our prenatal classes said that natural childbirth decreased my chances of having a C-section. (During my third pregnancy, I decided those nurses were as nutty as their banana muffins, because epidurals are magical.)
By LISA SMITH MOLINARI | Special to Stars and Stripes | Published: April 30, 2021 “If only money grew on trees,” I grumbled, stooping to crawl under our hedges. I knew weeding and mulching the 150-foot row of privets that grows along the border of our property would take all day and render me unable to move without shooting back pains. But someone had to do it. My husband of 27 years, Francis, was cutting the grass with a brand new, fire-engine-red lawnmower he’d just purchased the day before. I hadn’t thought it necessary, but he said the old mower just couldn’t cut it. I’d heard enough of his sod stories, and besides, as long as he was doing yard work, he could buy himself a bright red tuxedo to match, for all I cared.
By LISA SMITH MOLINARI | Special to Stars and Stripes | Published: April 23, 2021 From the time I toddled around in droopy diapers, to the day I drove off to college in my Volkswagen Beetle, I lived in one small Pennsylvania town. The kids who picked their noses next to me in Mrs. Rowley s kindergarten class were the same ones who walked across the stage with me at our high school graduation. I had one hometown, one high school, one brick house, one yellow bedroom, and one best friend who I gabbed with each night on one rotary phone while draped across one mock brass twin bed.
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