It was a rough night in the Seabolt household, as our two dogs – a German shepherd (Ace) and his partner in crime, a relatively inert ottoman of a dog (Jagger) – decided at around 4 a.
I am not a morning person. In the morning, if forced to get up at all, I prefer nothing more than silence, and a cup of coffee as big as my head.
To be invoked by all PTO parents, volunteer parents, and room mothers (and fathers and “significant others”) among us.
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.