I think we all know by now my opinion on back-to-school clothing. Namely, that the only thing missing from most back-to-school fashion collections for even the youngest children is a dimly lit stage and a pole.
You just never know when you’ll have a brush with greatness, or in my case, great fear. As near as I remember, I was cleaning a high shelf in the bathroom when there was a flash of movement, a flutter, and my momentary thought “oh, why is there a big leaf up here?” before the “leaf” became coherent enough to make a beeline (bat line?) for my hair.
Regarding the subject of etiquette, I once read that rules for social behavior don’t exist to control people, but rather to make everyone feel comfortable.
I think that I shall never hear the term “tourist season” without imagining the term being akin withs, say, “deer season,” “duck season,” or “open season.
There is a certain comfort to be taken in the knowledge that some things are probably never going to change.
The world at large is always nattering on about how beauty is only “skin deep”, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s plenty deep enough.
Last week I suffered a grievous personal loss of a very dear friend. It was sudden and unexpected and although valiant lifesaving efforts were undertaken, all attempts to revive were ultimately unsuccessful.
As a mom, there is life B.S. (before sports) and then there is life A.S. (after sports). “Before sports” encompasses that rare span of time that occurs in those blissful seasons before you teach your child to walk and, say, chew gum at the same time.
If it has been a lifelong dream of yours to spend untold steamy summer hours peeling sticky vinyl off every inch of your exposed flesh then you should definitely get yourself an enormous inflatable pool.
When my children were younger I would, quite frankly, roll my eyes at the older people who would say as if imparting the sagest of wisdom “enjoy them now, they’ll be grown in the blink of an eye.
Father’s Day has never ranked among my top personal holidays. I got no more excited about Father’s Day than, say, any holiday belonging solely to a religion to which I do not belong.
Summer is a favorite of so many for one obvious reason: it is the one season when total disintegration of social mores is completely acceptable.
In an effort to offset some of the eventual bad habits our children might learn from us, such as muttering unkind and possibly impure thoughts under their breaths while driving, or wearing white shoes after Labor Day, we’re trying to raise them to become productive and law-abiding citizens of the world.
I was kicking around the idea of writing about all the questionable things our parents did to and with us as children and calling together a support group of sorts.
Remember when high school prom was just a sweet little rite of passage? This, of course, was back before parents as a whole just went ahead and lost their minds.
Please do NOT call Children’s Services on me. Despite what you may think (and what scientific evidence may have proven), exposure to the soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever does not actually constitute child abuse.
It should be noted that what I lack in mechanical ability, I make up for with a complete lack of common sense.
I have spent nearly nine years teaching my children that patience is a virtue (although sadly, not one of mine) and that there are no stupid questions.
I have never been, shall we say, comfortable with entertaining. When it comes to the planning and preparation involved with inviting people over to dine, I would much rather go to a nice, relaxing dental appointment or something less taxing like that.
After years of toil, struggle, and inner turmoil wondering what, if anything, I want to be when I grow up, I have discovered my one true calling: I am the Meanest Mom Ever! Crowned.