The dads effectively hit everything except the ball causing a lot of property damage while the factory workers could not settle on a bat.
Their parents, who are never in town, don’t answer my emails, so parent-teacher conferences are as big a joke as life insurance in this town.
Pray especially for those of us who have screamed "SHUT THE FUCK UP I AM TRYING TO MEDITATE" at our children.
We appreciate you're probably busy. And trust us, we're normally never this needy in ransoms.
My own spider (Cecil) was like the son I never had. Actually, I have a human son, but he's been quite a disappointment to me.
Did you grow up in a modest house, or the suburbs, or a brownstone, or a symbolically dilapidated mansion?
Things were easier then. Parents were parents, children were children, and unlike today’s children, they didn’t grow into adults either.
I’ve got my iPhone ready to snap the most insane pictures of my kids, holding a blackboard with facts scrawled in elaborate chalk calligraphy.
Two Boston brand faux-wood pencil sharpeners: one electric, one battery-operated, both used solely from the years 2000 to 2004.
I thought the mixed berry would pair well with the mix of emotions I had been feeling since my mom married her long-time boyfriend, Alfonso Matrioni.
What’s the deal with rattles nowadays? Seems to me like a poor excuse for jangly keys! Oh, wait– can someone bring me a bottle?
"Bitch Mom’s Top Ten Child Rearing Tips and the Cocktails to Pair with Them: with Recipes from the Hit Blog, Bitch Mom Kitch Mom"