Amy Writes

How precious is this picture? This blog - and, apparently my story - is filled with celebrity references. My fascination with all things A-list began pretty early. Even before those dreamboats from Boston, I was dabbling in the world of the Mickey Mouse Club, sending fan mail to Damon and collecting the generic post card head shots they'd send back on his behalf. I could identify most of the Beach Boys and one time I met Wayne from the Wonder Years on a youth group trip. I wouldn't say it was unhealthy, it was just how my brain worked. I was a kind of super-recognizer - I could tell you who was who and who had been in what, probably from all of those Teen Beats I was collecting for the pictures of Jonathan Knight. I had a few lucky (or maybe we should use the word "determined") experiences in high school and college, being in the right place at the right time to meet some of my favorite artists after concerts, once being granted an upgrade to front row tickets

Oh, the squealing. When those five boys took the stage I thought some of the girls around me might actually pass out. They were no longer pinups on the bedroom wall - they were real, live people, singing in real life, breathing the same air as all of us. Each girl with her favorite band member, screaming just a little louder when his baby face showed up on the jumbo screen. Yes, One Direction was here last week. But that's not where I was. I was saving my voice for what would be one of the most ridiculously incredibly fun nights of my life. Rewind twenty-five years or so. Big sister has flown the coop and I am starting to have some freedom with the radio dial. Fluent beyond my years in Billy Joel, Bryan Adams, Madonna, Survivor, Hall & Oates, REO Speedwagon, etc., I begin branching out to see what the kids are listening to these days. I am just beginning middle school and, according to my friend base, I seem to have two choices: Hair Bands and Bubble Gum Pop. Ultimately,

It's called "self-assessment," that ability to take a step back and evaluate your own work objectively. Too much self-assessment and you're a nervous perfectionist. Too little self-assessment and you're the star in a televised-because-it's-hideous American Idol audition. It's something we're working on here, because my eldest child has boundless confidence (which we have encouraged) and zero objectivity. Confidence with a capital C, headed straight into Randy's cross hairs. Maybe it's not the absence of self-assessment skills. It's just that when she does self-assess, her assessment is that she is freakin' awesome. And she has every right to believe that because it's what we've been telling her every day of her life for 10 years. She really is an amazing kid... ...Whose art output is average. Whose year at the piano was less than excellent. Whose never ending "shows" were cute at 3...4...5...but not 10. I want