satire
"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city." - George Burns
5-9-5-3. Runner-Up in Mother's Day Confessions Challenge.
Hey Mom. I never told you this before, but I need to confess something. As you know, I lived at your place for a bit, we’ll call it eighteen years. For the first twelve or so, there was a rule that was not to be broken: Do NOT watch any adult TV shows. This rule was created after the great “Degrassi Incident” where the ten-year-old version of Kyle was watching his weekly teen melodrama and accidentally inquired as to what Marijuana was. Yes, it was an accident, and no I didn’t actually know what marijuana was until several years later, which I’m sure will be covered in another story. The point is, you had to do something. Honestly, I get it. You didn’t want to be the only one at parent-teacher conferences having to explain why at recess your 4th grader was the one rolling joints out of Crayon paper or singing Bob Marley on the play structure. No harm no foul, but I digress.
By Kyle Maddox4 years ago in Families
Yes, Sir, Daddy Darling, Sir (Salute Twice)
Yes, Sir, Daddy, Darling, Sir! (Salute Twice) By Minnette Meador On that bright September morning in 1959, the kind that sparks apples on cheeks, we walked across the school parking lot. The brick building loomed gargantuan in front of us, and the pillared vestibule was filled to the brim with noisy kids. Some were confident, smug, smacking each other on the shoulders as if to say, “This is my place.” Others bounced against their parent’s hands in fidgety excitement; I was one of those.
By Minnette Meador4 years ago in Families
The Year of El Diablo
Some stories need to be told. They become legendary and passed from generation to generation. It's how we learn about our ancestors, our family before us, and we pass those stories to our children and grandchildren, and these stories get told to the generations after them. Growing up, I had uncles with nicknames like Killer Quintero and Big Al from Alisal. Even I was blessed with a handle, Paula Mae, for my Ellie Mae Clampett ways.
By Paula Cushman4 years ago in Families
Mom's Imagination
Walking on one of the wooded trails around my older son's school, I noticed a man corralling a child that resembled my toddler, clothes and all. They were on the trail a small distance above mine separated by a ravine. I was not sure about the accuracy of my increasingly-aged vision, but nevertheless hurried to reach the trail head where we would both merge upon the parking lot. Now obviously I knew I had safely dropped my toddler off at his preschool that morning, but still wondered why was there such a striking resemblance? As I drew near, I noticed the bleached-blonde-haired gentlemen hastily packing the child into the passenger front seat. My heart began to settle since I realized the child was a bit older and not my son, but I continued to approach anyway. The man slammed the door to the silver Volvo wagon with slightly tinted glass and executed a quick jog to the driver's side. As I emerged upon the road, they drove past me. I noticed that the boy in the front seat was around six, however, as I scanned the back seat passengers of the passing car, I did see my beloved toddler strapped tightly in the driver's side back seat, his expression marked with a curiosity of "where am I going". PANIC! I could not believe what I was seeing! It was him! I started chasing the car and tried to retain every bit of information I could. Driver - man in his late thirties, beach bum style hair and clothing, approximately 5'11" and slightly stocky. The car color, year and license plate with only a local dealer's advertisement were burned into my memory. I continued to pursue the car and as it sped from the scene, the sinking feeling of helplessness weighed on me as my running gave out to a crumpled defeat. I didn't want to stop the chase for I would lose sight of the direction, yet I needed to call someone in the seemingly vacant neighborhood to launch the Amber Alert and summon the police. I screamed for help. "Please someone help me!" I began to cry, sobbing and shouting "No! No! No!"
By Sherri L Dodd4 years ago in Families
Excommunication of the Self...
Originally written by Olivia Petrus. Oct. 7th, 2007. I stared out the car window at the green open fields enveloped in the early Sunday morning light. The car moved slowly up and down the hilly road that led us past the Illinois countryside. I noticed the birds soaring freely in the blue skies and watched the cows graze, while the horses galloped in and out of the stereotypical barns littered across that Middle-of-Nowhere Town.
By Unlisted&Twisted!4 years ago in Families
