I see children as kites. You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground. You run with them until you're both breathless. They crash . . . you add a longer tail . . . you patch and comfort, adjust and teach. You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them that someday they'll fly.
No self-respecting mother would run out of intimidations on the eve of a major holiday.
Time. It hangs heavy for the bored, eludes the busy, flies by the for young, and runs out for the aged.
The only reason I would take up jogging is so that I could hear heavy breathing again.
When a child is locked in the bathroom with water running and he says he's doing nothing but the dog is barking, call 911.
There are few things in this world more satisfying than having your son teach you how to play tennis, unless it is having a semi-truck run over your foot.
Explain to me how he [her son] can ride a bicycle, run, play ball, set up a camp, swing, fight a war, swim and race for eight hours ... and has to be driven to the garbage can.
I am always behind the shopper at the grocery store who has stitched her coupons in the lining of her coat and wants to talk about a 'strong' chicken she bought two weeks ago. The register tape also runs out just before her sub-total. In the public restroom, I always stand behind the teen-ager who is changing into her band uniform for a parade and doesn't emerge until she has combed the tassels on her boots, shaved her legs, and recovered her contact lens from the commode.
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