i'd like some pants to match that hairshirt, please

The girl-child has been home for a week. What a delight it is to have her home. I heard someone use the phrase "an embarrassment of riches" the other day. I know it has negative connotations of excess and materialism but the expression reminds me of how I feel about my family.

Anyway, having her around brings to mind many a silly anecdote from her childhood. When she and her older brother were young and would squabble, as siblings do, I would sometimes lose patience, as parents do, and yell at them,

"If you two don't stop bickering this minute, I'm going to drive down the courthouse and change your names to Buford and Eunice."

The Yankee sarcasm was lost on them but they knew that I was rounding the patience bend, so they usually took a break from battle.

Years later, my sweet daughter (hands down, the more compliant of the two) told me that she always thought that I was saying,

"I'm going to change your names to Buford and Anus."

She thought I was going to rename her Anus. Who would threaten to rename her offspring after a bodily orifice as punishment? Evidently, the woman who writes this blog, that's who. Me, Epiphagina.

parenting hairshirts and other timeless fashions

My friend Nicki and her husband Andrew, write this blog about raising Hazel, their toddling offspring. Lots of good pictures and quirky stuff. Nothing syrupy or group-huggy. Recently she posted this entry about [continued] evidence of their bad parenting. A modern, self-inflicted stockade, this public blogging thing.

When I learned to embrace other people's misconceptions, I became a much happier parent. Too bad that happened after the kids were grown.

Not to be outdone in the category of shitty parental reputations, here is my comment to her post:

When we sent our 15-year old daughter to Italy as an exchange student, we gave her money specifically to buy a heavy coat there—the luggage weight limits were strict and she didn't have enough room in her suitcase.

She lost her credit cards on the first stopover.

A week or so later, an AFS representative calls and scolds me for dumping my little matchgirl-child in a foreign country without money or adequate outerwear. After I stopped laughing (oh, they gave me such a stern look over the phone) and explained, I called my daughter and we roared—the idea of people thinking I wasn't overprotective was hilarious.

Then I begged her, Honey please go out a buy a coat today before they start interviewing foster parents here for your return, okay?

And for godsake, child, stop using socks for mittens.