Once upon a time, I convinced Doug we needed to build an addition so that all three children could grow up having their own bedrooms.
After more than two grueling years of construction, financial strain and mass disorganization, three freshly painted bedrooms finally await their newest inhabitants.
Problem is, this trio wants nothing to do with being apart.
If summer’s going to leave us, it’s taking every last training wheel along with it.
Unfortunately, my “take three, they’re small” sales pitch didn’t fly with Mr. Rich, the bus driver.
Now that I have exactly fourteen birthday parties under my belt, I’ve become somewhat of an expert. This year, the only thing I forgot was forks for the cake. When I announced to the bevy of five-something-year-olds that they would be devouring pink and white birthday cake with their fingers, I was greeted a round of applause.
Somewhere in Orange County, New Yorkers are startled by a FLOP followed by a resonating THUD. Who knew Emily Post’s coffin was roomy enough for gymnastic flips?