Bedtime has evolved into a dramatic performance that is sometimes Oscar-worthy. Take the other night, for instance. Little Sunshine comes in to my room, where I have already collapsed following a full day of work followed by a full evening of stellar parenting. (Ha.) "Mama, there are monsters in my room." I reply, "No there's not. Daddy scared them all away." She comes back with, "But I need hope?" Now that was a new, and creative one. "Hope?" I ask. She says, "Uh huh." Well, "What are you hoping for?" She looks left and then right, obviously working out her plan on the fly. "Well, but it will hurt my leg." Apparently someone forgot to tell us that logical progression of reasoning does not apply to kids. Not knowing what else to do, I jump right over to this path of thought. "How will it hurt your leg, baby?" "Well, but there's a scratch." I had just bathed the child, a
The always random, occasionally complex, often confounded commentary and narrative of one West Texas woman's life.