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.