It’s that time of the year again. That time when many well-meaning people say to me “Oh, you don’t have any children of your own to spend the holidays with. How sad.” Now, I love kids. I’ve spent several years teaching Sunday school and have met some wonderful children, but I’ve never had that maternal instinct. Well, I say never but that’s not entirely true. It kicks in when I’m lying on the couch and the remote is on the other side of the room. I can’t image a more difficult job than being a parent. I’ve known some kids who obviously have had no parenting at all. These are the children whose first contact with an authority figure will come while being read their Miranda rights in the backseat of a squad car. Raising a child is a labor of love, but it is labor nonetheless. It is a job. I can imagine a fun job, but sometimes it must be so frustrating, menial, and dull, it makes working the corn dog concession in the Ringworm Brothers Carnival seem like a stint as a secret service agent with Artemus Gordon on an episode of the Wild, Wild West. And while there’s no health or dental, no vacation pay, no sick leave, no 401K, one thing you’ve got plenty of is job security. You’ll be a parent until the day you die. UNTIL YOU DIE! What a frightening proposition and not much room for error. I’d crack under the pressure. I think I’m better suited for Sunday school teaching. I can love on the kids in my class, give them Skittles and Kazoos and send them home with grateful parents who will cherish them and make them bring them the remote. By the way parents, now is the perfect time to buy your child a book about the Old West. Might I suggest Outlaw Tales of California or the Bedside Book of Bad Girls: Outlaw Women of the Midwest. Don’t let them learn about such things on the street. 
