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.
Score! I just crossed something off my to-do list. I can put a black line straight through “consume entire package of M&M’s before breakfast.
I understand now, with perfect clarity, why some 30-something women persist in sporting mini-skirts that are far too young for them (or their thighs) and men of the same age endlessly relive their teenage athletic exploits.
On this, the occasion of my 10,000th birthday, I would like to say … oh, OK, I’m not really 10,000 years old.
It is almost spring and the first specks of bold, new colors are sprouting among us. No, not spring flowers silly.