I look down at my hands splayed on the blue granite of the bathroom counter. This is the part of the day I hate the most. I don't want to face my reflection in the mirror. I know what I look like. I have memorized the fine lines and wrinkles that are starting to show my age. I can tell you the number of freckles that grace my face and due to years of fun in the summer sun. I hate the way I look. I do everything else to get myself ready for the day before I face the inevitable. I brush my teeth, brush the tangles out of my hair, lotion up my arms and legs, and even manage to dress without Keep Reading >>>
I Have No Problem With Beating My Kids
You can’t step outside without cringing at the desperate weeping in the streets. I look around and all I see are a bunch of children who can’t believe they’ve lost. They can’t believe the rules were not in their favor. How dare someone beat them at their own game! These kids haven’t learned to be graceful in defeat and it’s driving me up a wall. Also, these kids are nine years old. Also, these kids live on my street. I Have No Problem With Beating My Kids Sometimes I lay awake at nights and tremble at the thought my children may be one of them. If you know me, you know I abhor Keep Reading >>>
