Serenade of the Fast Food

Can you hear it? It calls to me sweetly as I drive home from work every day, tired and hungry. Hard to resist the siren call.

We will feed you fast. It smells good.

In this small town, there is no way to avoid them. They all line up, coming and going out of town. Such an attractive song. Like the sirens of ancient Greece, only dressed up in tacky signs.

Woe is me.

Count? What counts?

Who would have thought that the blog counter could break. Or that it would matter to me. Who visits? Who knows? I guess I should be writing just for me anyway. Hey there, it's me. Shhhh, someone might notice you.

Cryin' in my tea

What are you supposed to do? Our baby has turned into Kujo. He yells and screams when he doesn’t get what he wants. And he wants a LOT. I swear we didn’t start this school year micromanaging his life. But, we sure do now. Lying, stealing, internet porn, the list is endless. When he gets caught (which is often) he turns it on us. Like the right-wing pundits who think if they are the loudest, they are right. M has counted the months until the boy is 18. I don’t know if I can make it sometimes. The apple of my eye has turned on us. He is a big old worm in the apple basket. What are we supposed to do????

It is so hard. We as parents are supposed to do what is right. Not hit him back. Not call him names. What rules does he have to follow? It is worse for M, being the same gender. Oh, we suffer for our love of our child. Our friends are starting to notice how much it is taking to raise our boy, and that helps a bit. We need a break. Time without stress. Anything!