I was too busy sleeping to title this post.

Because I want my children to be able to write books about their terrible childhoods when they are grown, I share with you this story.

(It would be a damn shame if S. doesn't write a book when she grows up, because I have the perfect picture for the cover. It's a family shot, only S. wasn't cooperating, so we sent her off to the side. So everyone is smiling, and over on the side is S., head down, under a gray sky.)

Yesterday, S. met with the school guidance counselor. What did they talk about?

"Well," says S, "I told her how Daddy always yells at me for getting bad grades."

What else?

"I told her how Z. has a spy system and how she tells on me for sharing my lunch. And we talked about how sometimes what you see isn't what you think. Like, if you see someone peeling an orange, you might think they're sharing, but really they're just HELPING."

Anything else?

"Yeah, then she asked about my mom. She said, 'Let's talk about your mom. We haven't talked about her.' And I said, "Well, my mom doesn't really do anything. She just sleeps all day.'"

Fantastic.