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Margie hippie

Hippie me.

BY MARGIE RUBIN

Margie's girls

My girls.

My 20s were wild and crazy: Drugs, sex, and of course rock and roll. Why then, when my 25-year-old daughter dumps her loyal, loving accountant boyfriend for some loser 34-year-old waiter, and then my 22-year-old daughter follows suit two months later, am I crying myself to sleep?

The new guys have tattoos and no health insurance. How will they make a living? How will they be able to give my daughters all they deserve? (Did I just say that?) Yes, I the feminist, ex-hippie want someone for them who will “provide” for my Rachel and my Leah. Never mind that I have worked my whole adult life as an educator. Never mind that I married an educator and, therefore, had to work.

But I love my career and I want to work. Don’t I want the same things for the girls? And in here lies my dilemma. I want them to have the choice to stay home with their kids one day if they want. The choice I didn’t have. Maybe this is a choice they, themselves, would never make. But somehow, remembering four-year-old Rachel telling me that she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom when she grew up, as I dressed for work, makes me think they just might.