Imet an exceedingly pleasant woman last week. Bubbly. Friendly. Open. Chatting at a school event, we found we had much in common: kids in the same class, husbands who were off in the corner avoiding chit-chat, a staggering appetite for potluck. We bonded like Bazooka to the bottom of a ballet flat.
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After a distinguished career of doling out quarters in exchange for incisors, the Tooth Fairy died Monday-on my bedspread, amid a sprinkling of premolars, hand-written notes, and a bottle of common craft store glitter.
For parents, there’s nothing more gratifying than the white-hot itch of outrage. A hearty helping of peeved exasperation, coupled with a leisurely blame-laying session, can be such a delightful distraction from our own inequities as muddle-headed mothers and flawed fathers.