I didn’t set out to become a sell-out. I’m just saying. For the record and all. I had no intention of becoming an impersonal cog in the corporate machine.
“(Michael) Jackson taken to hospital with flu; jury selection delayed a week” – Associated Press, Feb.
In the beginning, when it came to parenting a daughter, I wasn’t exactly in the pink.
Sure, I had been a girlie-girl as a child.
Someday your prince will come. Sadly, if you’re Camilla Parker Bowles, he’ll come with some serious baggage.
It isn’t my actual children that are causing me stress these days, but the “maybe baby” that haunts me.
Clearly, the problem is that I expect too much.
I expect, for example, that my cellular telephone might actually make telephone calls.
I am raising ingrates.
My children, like so many others, are ferried about in the automotive equivalent of a living room.
I have recently received a fair amount of mail asking me if I have, and I quote, “always lived in the country?” What a silly question.
It’s hard to know when, exactly, to proclaim an otherwise beautiful family experience a disaster, but that does seem to be the way these things go.
Recently, I have begun to branch out in my daily newspaper reading. Now that I have discovered the birth announcements, I am no longer confined to the police blotter to keep up with the myriad ways humans can commit crimes against the innocent.