Here's what I'm thinking about this afternoon, on the first real, lovely, warm, breezy spring weekday in northern New Jersey.
- Why is it that all of the events that, when they happen, make me feel like I am the most horrible parent on the face of the planet, but later make the best fodder for writing about what it's like -- what it's really like -- being a mother?
- How much I would like to slap across the face all the vapid reporters allowed to wield microphones and ask parents of murdered children what it felt like when they got the news.
- Why my sons, ages 9 and 13, know precisely what aggravates me -- from crumbs on the computer keyboard to overly-talkative salespeople -- yet my husband often hasn't a clue. He eats chips at the computer nightly and likes listening to product highlights from the commission-only guys at Best Buy.
- How I am going to finish revising four 15-page personal essays this week (about the above-mentioned worst moments in motherhood) for two of my MFA requirements with both boys home from school. Did it have to coincide with Turn Off The TV Week which, for some counterintuitive reason, they think is a good idea?
- Where to find a butter dish that fits into the door of my 25-year-old refrigerator. Target and KMart both bombed out. Since when did butter dishes get so stylish?
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