I’m not saying she’s blown into the front door of our house by a gust of wind while carrying an umbrella and a bottomless carpetbag, but my daughter’s new nanny otherwise couldn’t exude more Mary Poppins-ness if she were a relative of Julie Andrews who dances with magical broomsticks and sews dresse
“Dear God,” I prayed silently on a 5:33 p.m. express train from Grand Central Terminal the other day as I glanced out the window and saw the name of an unfamiliar stop.
Lately I’ve been devouring all available information on families with enough immediate members to fill a football-team roster, like the Gosselin brood, the clan from “Nine By Design,” the wonder that is “19 Kids and Counting,” Octomom and her litter of 14, and the cast of “Eight is Enough.
It dawned on me recently that I’m turning into my mother. I was straightening up the linen closet when I realized, hey, I have a linen closet. As a kid, I avoided the linen closet in my parents’ house like the plague.
The only times in my life that I’ve had to share a bedroom were my freshman year in college and then the semester I studied abroad. I don’t count my current room at home as one that I share since my husband and I both know that it’s mine, although I am gracious enough to let him sleep and store his
On occasion my husband warns me that if I meet three jerks in a day, then chances are I’m the jerk. (Although he doesn’t actually use the word jerk.) Indeed, despite the fact I lead a relatively charmed life, I’ve been feeling a little jerky of late.
Last month my 19-month-old daughter started talking in earnest. It was remarkable not just because hours before the onslaught of language her preferred method of communication was whining, bursting into tears, poking, pulling, dancing, swatting, giggling, throwing things gleefully or rolling on the
The irony wasn’t lost on me when I received an e-mail saying I had been “credentialed” for a fashion show. Never mind that seeing “credential” used as a verb initially evoked thoughts of being Massa-ed or Rielle-ed — as if I had been encroached upon by something vaguely inappropriate or sleazy.
Despite the tremendous craftsmanship of my column, Meredith Pro Tem, for years the Pulitzer Prize board has routinely and savagely declined to offer it any recognition.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been late to the party. While it premiered on NBC five years ago, “The Office” has only recently become a staple in my TV diet.
Dear Bob (may I call you Bob?), Having spent some time over the past two weeks watching the Winter Olympics, I wanted to tell you personally how much I’ve admired your tremendous hosting efforts.
Last Friday in music class the mom next to me quietly said, “Criss-cross applesauce.” Her daughter, a sweet little girl with a bright smile and perfectly pert pigtails, promptly went from sitting with her legs wide open to crossed, Indian style.
