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It’s that time of year again when teachers are blogging like crazy about what’s wrong with parents, with kids, with administrators and how all of that coalesces to make their jobs difficult if not impossible. The blogs read like an indictment of everyone else involved in the process of education:

I have a friend who recently moved to Northern California. Instead of sadness, all I felt was relief. My future obligations will be limited to sending a couple of emails decrying my inability to travel with a toddler, and a holiday card or two. With that, I should be good to go: friendship over. My relocated friend was more acquaintance than friend anyway. One I couldn’t quite shake.

When I flew the red-eye into JFK airport last month, my in-laws met me at the airport with food and diapers. Yes, I was flying from the second largest city in the country to the largest, but I knew that it would be a day or two before I could take my rental car and make my way to a store that had reasonably priced, fresh (if not organic) food, and diapers that wouldn’t set me back as much as my mortgage payment.

The so-called Carmageddon weekend was not a good thing for me. Instead of driving, I spent my time reading and watching on television what passes for entertainment these days. I hate driving, but perhaps dodging accidents on our very democratic freeways is a better way to mark one’s time.

I’d love to know what you, fair reader, did with your Independence Day weekend; the usual flag waving, fireworks watching, and holiday shopping, perhaps? I, myself, at least part of the time, watched a documentary about a black man falsely accused of raping and murdering a white woman in North Carolina.

Lately I’ve been doing all of my relaxing by knitting. Whenever the baby is asleep, I pick up my needles, yarn, and go for it. Ambitiously, I decided to knit my little one an entire farm. Yes, that’s right — a full-fledged farm for my city-born babe.

Without any sunscreen, my baby is getting some color. Even with that deep dark Coppertone tan, though, people still ask if I am his mother.

On almost any Monday, you can find me at the Los Angeles Zoo. I unpack my big, suburban, all-terrain stroller, load up the little one and cruise on through Griffith Park. We look at the animals, take pictures, and after a couple of hours, drive on home.

I’m thinking of taking my child to the beach. The active little toddler loves water. The cups and buckets in the house are causing a huge mess, but the Pacific Ocean should be enough to satisfy his needs. So this morning I set out to get him a bathing suit (or, more tactfully, a swim diaper). As with all in America, the options were seemingly limitless, at first.

Uncle Matty told me that under no circumstances should I adopt another dog. Don’t remember Uncle Matty? Matthew Margolis was a celebrity dog trainer before celebrity dog trainers became all the rage. I’d called him and, shockingly, he’d called me back because I had (and still have) an absolutely neurotic dog who wouldn’t submit to dog training. Despite having one crazy dog, another had tugged at my heartstrings, and I was ready to give it a home.