In my first year as an elementary school librarian, the time came for the annual book fair. Some determined PTA volunteer handed me a red, curly wig and a dress patterned in stars and planets and said, firmly, “Here. Wear this. You get to be Ms. Frizzle for the book fair!”
This bit of cheap advice is for every woman about to give birth. Be very, very thoughtful about what you name your child.
Tonight was something new for me and rather special. My political opponents might be a bit surprised, but tonight I had the privilege of dining with and then cheering as my 18-year-old godson went off to Marine boot camp.
What the heck happened here? Dentists used to ask me if I even used my teeth. Apparently, pride goeth before the fall and the dentist’s appointment.
I have been having dreadful dreams of being neck-deep in bowls of spaghetti pasta, or having to wrestle with herds of octopi.
Most of the time, I’m delighted my two children are close in age. They get along well, and I’ve been able to hand down jeans, sneakers, sweatshirts and toys. I also got full use from my crib, playpen, high chair, walker, bibs and stroller.
Some people dislike surprises, but I love them, excluding, of course, practical jokes and car breakdowns. But like an old warhorse, I am at my best when the bugle sounds.
I was something of a baker in my youth. I learned at my mother’s side, making some things from scratch, smugly shunning packaged mixes or ready-made pastries.
I would wager that more than the average amount of ridiculous happens in my life. I am still chuckling from the latest installment.