The way 8-year-old girls use their mouths as assault weapons, torturing and humiliating friends and enemies alike with words, it’s amazing one has never been called to The Hague for crimes against humanity.
I witnessed the depth of their pettiness when last Friday I led a group from Savannah’s class in an art project.
My fail rate for group projects, as Savannah so often reminds me, is high. One year, I created a strawberry smoothie tsunami when I spilled a fresh batch outside the school cafeteria at lunch hour. So, when I arrived at school on Friday, I was prepared, just not for the job handed to me: fight referee.
Delayed trains and bad weather couldn’t deter me from missing the documentary on Ina May Gaskin at Barnard last Sunday.
Only a 7-year-old would consider the highlight of her school day who vomited in class, and then rush to tell her mom.
When I was pregnant, and gleefully digesting endless books in preparation for motherhood and parenting, not one of those so-called experts revealed the ugly truth: I would have to endure years of Candyland.
Going into hiding for a year doesn’t sound all that bad, especially if means stays at ritzy hotels and first class travel. Makes me wish I had a Bunny Mellon.
There comes that scary moment in every mother’s life when you realize your daughter is becoming another you.