When We Fail Our Children

Having just returned from our daughter Jane’s parent teacher conference, I’m trying to decide if writing about it is fair or not. This is her school, no? Sadly, although it is her school the conference is my failure. It’s not a small failure either, it’s my downfall as a mother, perhaps as a wife too. I am completely and utterly disorganized. Not like, “ooh where did I put that” but more like, “Oh I’m so sorry we came to our parent teacher conference a day early.” To cap it all …

School. Must. Start. Soon.

Enough with this family time. We’ve had two weeks of no school, no camp, no alarm clocks and no schedule whatsoever. Jane, Alexander, I love you, but it’s time for you to go to school. It’s not what you’d expect either. I’m not feeling suffocated. I’m not craving adult company. The house isn’t a mess and I don’t care that I can’t listen to Howard 100 when you’re in the car. I adore your company. Kids, when you’re home I get fat. This is unacceptable. You see, kids, Mommy pretends …