Love the NEW Eydis Magazine! 
It's a lovely publication- total eye candy AND great articles. 
Here's my article from the October issue.

When my mother killed herself thirty years ago, I became a “motherless daughter.” For more than half my life I’ve tried to understand her decision to leave me. Her suicide defined me and changed the course of my life. I made so many poor choices because I felt unworthy of love and I stayed in too many situations in my personal and professional life because I doubted my value. After all, if the one person who is supposed to be there for me leaves, what’s my worth?

My father, now 84 and slowly fading away from Alzheimer’s disease, became a mother and a father to me. He is a solid man. He gave me what every child deserves: affirmation, attention, emotional support, and consistent assurance that I was “the best thing that ever happened to him.” His devotion to me is powerful.

And still, I struggle to understand how a parent can walk away. Perhaps I am hypersensitive to abandonment, but deciding not to be there for your children is simply unfathomable.

I recently interviewed a young woman named Sarah whose father had abandoned her. He lived nearby, but chose not to see her. His rejection of her left her emotionally wounded. Sadly, Sarah’s situation was all too common and heartbreaking.

Statistically, 63% of all teenagers who commit suicide are fatherless and 71% are high school dropouts. Fatherless children are ten times more likely to be drug abusers and twenty times more likely to suffer from depression. Sarah admits that she struggled with substance abuse, depression, and has made poor choices about relationships in the past. She’s spent years wondering why she wasn’t worthy enough for her father to stay in her life, and was ashamed to tell me that he’s missed every major event, her prom and her graduation, and that she gets upset when she realizes that he won’t be walking her down the aisle. At 21, she’s already realized what took me a lifetime to figure out. She says although this experience of loss has not been ideal, it has taught her to be more self-sufficient and careful with her heart.

I'm a slow learner compared to Sarah. It’s taken me three decades to learn that; whether it’s a departure by suicide or simply someone’s choice to be absent from your life, their departure really has nothing to do with the people they chose to leave behind and everything to do with them. They aren’t leaving you, they lack the compassion and commitment to stay. It truly is their loss—and an absence in their soul—but their absence leaves behind a devastation in the heart.

My purpose is to let people know that they are not alone. I AM you and I AM your struggles. I am here to remind you that you are never alone. Your past does not have to define you.  As Hemingway said, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”

So for those of you who wonder if you are good enough, you are. You are okay. You are loved. You are stronger than all your broken pieces. And I am here if you need me; don’t you dare think anything else, seriously.

I guess I DID need another tattoo

I really didn't NEED another tattoo. But each of my 9 tattoos tell a story.

If you read my book, Normal Life (which you can conveniently find in both Kindle and Hardcover at www.amazon.com/NORMAL-LIFE-Laura-Solomon-ebook/dp/B0057XSHK0) you may remember that my mother told me that I was a mistake.

Ever since I can remember, my Mom was VERY clear that she had no intention of having children so soon after getting married and that giving birth to me 9 months after their wedding pretty much ruined her life and her big plans to travel the world. She also told me that she hated babies and she 'wasn't good with me' until I could talk.

Then, twenty-two years later she hung herself.

So ya....

Part of MY special story is feeling unwanted, unimportant and devalued by the ONE person who SHOULD make you feel wanted, important and valuable.

My Dad did a great job parenting me. But yanno... I kinda wanted a good mother who said nice things and stuck around.

Fast forward to last month.
My Dad has a younger sister who is wonderful. She came across some letters that her dad, my Papa Louie, had written to her when I was about eighteen months old.

He had the most lovely penmanship and described my visits to his house. He explained in detail how much he and my Bubbie adored me and went on and on about every delightful thing I did.

In every letter, he referred to my as Miss LLL

After reading the letters about how much my Papa and Bubbie loved me, my lifelong self-esteem problem was GONE. I realized that I was not unlovable. And even though my Papa Louie died over 50 years ago, I felt completely healed because it was clear that someone was crazy about me.

So I got a tattoo of his cute writing as a physical reminder that I am loved.

SO loved,
Laura Lynn Last

The one thing I've learned about motherhood

As a mother of seven children and a step-mother to two more, I had my expectations about what THEIR future should look like. In MY mind, my oldest son Zack was going to be a history teacher. Now- at 28, he is LIVING history instead of teaching it.

After attending college, he decided not to live a 'traditional lifestyle.' FOR SURE, he didn't want to end up like his agoraphobic mother <that's me> who LOOKS at the globe in her office, but hates to travel and to whom travelling sounds more like torture.

Six months out of the year he lives on a 24' sailboat on the Detroit River and works at a bar/restaurant (www.detroitbeerco.com) He's the UNwaiter. He introduces himself, takes the order and let's the diner know that he WILL NOT be checking back every few minutes to 'see how everything is' - because that's just fucking annoying. He explains that he will count on the diner to call HIM over if they need anything. People love it and he cashe$ out.

The other six months he goes off the grid. With only a backpack, he's trekked thousands of miles on the Pacific Crest Trail, Israel, Croatia, Hungary and soon he will leave for Africa. TRIBAL Africa. Bone in their noses Africa. Where it is likely that without speaking Fulani or Tswana-  he will be doing charades to communicate with the tribespeople and they will probably boil his skinny-ass over a spit. Zack has told me that should this scenario occur- and he dies- that I should be happy he died living his dream Thanks, how comforting. That takes a load off my mind.

My point is, that the life he's chosen is NOT one I would have chosen for him. EVER. Yes, people say how WONDERFUL it is. How COOL. How great it is that he's such a free spirit. I don't get it AT ALL.

But that's the point.

"Motherhood is about raising and celebrating the child you have, not the child you thought you would have. It's about understanding that he is exactly the person he is supposed to be, and that, if you're lucky, he just might be the teacher who turns you into the person you are supposed to be."

Zack has taught me to let go. As my oldest child, he's broken me down. He's taught me that as a parent, my job is to GUIDE my kids and teach them morals, values and ethics. I can't MAKE THEM choose what they want to do with their lives. After all, it IS their life.

ALL of my kids are good people. They are also HAPPY people and happy is good.
They all are capable, hardworking, friendly and compassionate. That was my goal.

So, I guess I've done my job.
The rest is on them.
And I've learned to be that mom who (lovingly) lets go.

Last night, I wrote an article for a magazine (mymagazinesouthoakland.com). The editor sent me an email about how much she loved the article and requested a professional portrait for my byline. This spun me into a huge frenzy. As a Facebook addict, I've posted thousands of pictures. Yes, THOUSANDS. But I find it hard to pose for a picture. I was under pressure. That's never a good look. What I actually needed was a professional photographer. Instead it was me in a room with my 7 dogs trying to capture a moment.

So this morning, I did my hair, slapped on a thick coat of makeup and put on a lady top. When I say lady top- that's the exact opposite of what I normally wear- which is a black wife-beater. Because black is slimming. And a wife-beater is a good look if you have nice, trim arms. But ya.... not so much.

Anyhoo. For Mother's Day, my son Danny bought me a selfie stick. Your first clue that you take too many selfies is when your son buys you a selfie stick.

I put my phone at the end of the 5 foot stick and tried to appear casual, professional and relaxed while I sweat to death in the lady top. I swear. I took 100 pictures thinking I was all cute. I did staged lighting, natural lighting and put myself on a backdrop. Because if nothing else, I am the kind of gal that rocks a backdrop.

Then, I washed my face and changed back into my black yoga pants. But I don't do yoga anymore. I just wear the yoga pants just in case. I've been stagnant  for about 53 years, but ya never know. I have the costume on. That has to count for something.

Then, I planted my fat ass at my desk and started looking at the pictures. I deleted 98 of them as I reviewed them. I kept two pictures. I sent this one to my twenty year old daughter. She sent me back a text that said "awwwww"

She could only muster up an "awwwww." I can't blame her. I look mental. She's probably worried that in 33 years she will look like me. Poor dear.

In 99 of the pictures I look like a moron. Like... my eyes were crossed, my attempt at cleavage failed, my hair was too 80's looking and oh ya... there was that one where the selfie stick showed. That was such a cute one.

Then, I found ONE picture that with the proper amount of filters, cropping, airbrushing, adjusting the saturation and turning it into a black and white photo- which pretty much means it doesn't resemble me at all- THAT one doesn't look too bad. I should note that in this photo, one of my eyes is significantly larger the other. And in real life, one of my eyes is significantly larger than the other. My head is also at an odd angle, but that is to be expected because I am trying to balance a phone at the end of a fucking stick while I appear casual, professional and relaxed.

Right now, I am exhausted or I would (for sure) note all of the other flaws in my appearance. But here's the story. In two weeks I will be 53 years old. In 47 years I will be 100. So ya. I guess this is the picture for the byline.