The Truth at Last**

Grandma Josephine, my Nonni

Speaking from my own experience, I would argue that the best mothers are Italian-Americans, in part because they are warm and affectionate, but mostly because of the manicotti. When I was a kid, my own Irish-American mother was a terrible cook, so I would dutifully eat the remains of whatever luckless animal she'd just burned to a crisp, puke it up and then run down the street to Richie Giardinelli's house, where his mother was always baking ziti or cooking up a fresh pot of meatballs or making manicotti.

I never met anyone who was more beloved by her kids than Mrs. Giardinelli, though she wasn't much different from all the other Italian-American mothers I have known. Italian-American moms love their kids, they look out for their kids, they defend their kids, and because of that their kids generally grow up to be pillars of the community. If I had to do it all over again, I'd come back as an Italian-American kid—in part because of the warmth, the affection, the passion and the generosity, but mostly because of the manicotti.

-- Joe Queenan, from Why Italian Moms Are The Best

** This is no way denigrates my own mother's mothering. She was the best of mothers, but she was half Syrian and half Scotch-English. Despite that, she could cook very, very well!

Superstitious Lady

My alter ego, the superstitious southern Italian peasant woman needs to just come on out and tell ya'll that Sophie's seizures have dramatically improved. This might be because the IVIG has kicked in

or the new drug Vimpat is helping

or the weaning of Keppra (she was on it for over seven years but I refuse to allow more than two drugs, so it had to come off) is helping

or the combination of all of the above, coupled with regular visits to the osteopath are conspiring to improve the strange workings of Sophie's brain

or the planets have finally aligned for her.

Your guess is as good as mine.

But it's good, really good.

And while I feel a bit like the pile of ashes left behind as the phoenix soars, my gratitude, hard-won, could burst at the seams. I'm adrift, laying back, my face to the sun but too tired to row.