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.
You would think that a person who has managed, however inexplicably, to choose a mate, choose to parent two lovely albeit argumentative small humans, and choose to share with the world at large the most intimate details of her life (and those of numerous innocent bystanders), would have little trouble making a commitment to the little things in life.