Free Motherhood, The Second OldestProfession by Erma Bombeck

understand the ills and lacunae of contemporary education.”
    I didn't even understand good-bye.
    In the eighth grade, my husband answered the phone one night and did a lot of nodding. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, “Guess what? Our son is not motivated by curriculum innovation. They're apprehensive about his stagnating in a lock-step system, and they're trying to stimulate his awareness. What do you think it means?”
    “I think it means he's goofing off.”
    He was in his sophomore year when he was diagnosed as “having problems that indicate behavior modification, perhaps in a modular-flexible schedule on which an aggressive monopolizer would diminish his role and force him' to accept a lesser role in a nonpunitive, restraining, yet pleasant way.”
    At the beginning of his senior year, my son's adviser summoned me to her office and said, “Well, it's that time when we have to consider the conundrum, isn't it?” She laughed so I laughed too.
    "It's hard to say where the burden for the lack of motivation and apathy lies, but before your son's achievement levels polarize, I thought we should have a little talk.
    “Hopefully we can open options so he can realize his potential and aim for some tangible goals. Although accreditation is near at hand, I wanted to emphasize his need for upward mobility if he is to succeed on a postgraduate level.”
    On the way out, I leaned over to the secretary and
    said, “English! Do you speak English?” She nodded.
    “What was she talking about?” “Your son is goofing off,” she said flatly. I don't know if education has helped my son or not,
    but it has certainly improved my vocabulary.

Unknown
    19
    What kind of a mother would…
    hang up on E.T.?
    Dottie
    Dottie Fedstrom was a no-nonsense mother who raised her children by the rules.
    Dottie Fedstrom made the Marine Corps look like an exercise in Show and Tell.
    She was born to mother. She had hands like thermometers, two sets of eyes that could look through doors and tell at a glance when a child was constipated or lying. She had a nose that could smell chocolate on the breath of a child in another state with his head buried in a pillow.
    Dottie had six daughters. She called them The Gang. She bought them white socks (one size fits all) and brown oxfords which were passed down from one sister to the next. Once she bought two bolts of navy corduroy and made each of them a jumper and had enough left over to make drapes and spreads for their bedrooms. (As one of her daughters observed, if you didn't smile, she wouldn't know if you were in your room or not.)
    If one daughter wanted oatmeal for breakfast, they all got oatmeal. If one got the measles, Dottie made sure they all got them. If the first to get a watch lost hers, then none of the others would be trusted with one.
    Whether they were twenty or two, they all had the same curfew and the same allowance, and got the same doll, the same sweater, album, and hair dryer for Christmas. Dottie didn't play favorites.
    It surprised no one when the girls married young. They were as predictable as their mother. Eventually, Dot-tie was down to one daughter, Nicky.
    For three years Nicky heard:
    “I don't know why you don't let your hair grow like your sister Leslie's. You'd look good in that style instead of looking like a twelve-year-old boy.”
    “When Pammie had your room, she had that real pretty pink spread. I think it's still around here somewhere. I'm going to dig it out for you.”
    “Does your teacher know you're Wendy's sister? She should have recognized the dress. It was Wendy's favorite.”
    “You're exactly like your sister Leah. She never could manage her money either. Every week she wanted an advance on her allowance.”
    “You and Alice were never good judges of character.”
    “You'd better snap it up. All five of your sisters were married before their twenty-first birthday.”
    Nicky was destined never to do anything original in her entire life. She