Andy Williams had it all wrong . Thanksgiving is the most wonderful time of the year. Unless you're a turkey. As a poor kid growing up in rural Southeast Texas , Christmas was hard. While my parents fought over the "right" way to string lights on an anemic artificial tree, our seven television stations broadcast non-stop messages of unaffordable presents and unattainable family happiness. Toys R Us burst with more games, more toys, oh boy. Homes dripped with decorations and lights. Everyone was happy and nothing ever went wrong (except for that time Kevin got left home alone). Even the long-distance phone commercials were sappy and soaked with the kind of togetherness my parents -- mostly estranged from their own families in the Midwest -- didn't long for. I couldn't relate to most of what surrounded me. Walking the tightrope that is the poverty line, my family wavered on and off of traditional welfare. The government provided cash benefits back then for

He broke out in hives. Anywhere that he'd touched the peanut butter - his fingers, the inside of his hands, around his mouth - turned deep pink and sprouted dozens of white bumps, no bigger than the head of a pin. People frequently ask me how I knew my son was allergic to peanuts. Simple. At 10 months old, I gave him peanut butter, and he broke out in hives. Two months later at his 1-year well child appointment, I mentioned the episode to his doctor. The hives combined with ongoing eczema earned us a referral to a pediatric allergist. At that appointment, they covered his back with needle sticks laced with common allergens - peanuts, wheat, milk, eggs, soy, pollen, animal dander, mold, dust, and more. It was a grueling 20 minute wait while he sobbed and wailed but we couldn't put our arms around him for fear of cross-contaminating the samples. Growing welts confirmed what we already knew: he had spring and fall environmental allergies, and he was allergic to peanuts.

"You're gonna fall and bust your ass!" the guy called to his son, who was dangling upside-down from a climbing rope on the second level of a three-tier McDonald's PlayPlace. This father and his friend had together brought three rambunctious boys for Happy Meals, ice cream, and play time. Their boys were maybe 9, 7, and 2. I had brought my own two kiddos -- ages 5 and 2 -- to the same junk food joint for dinner and to burn off some energy. My husband was on day three of a five-day trip out of town, and I didn't have the energy to keep yelling "stop yelling!" at the library so I took us somewhere that yelling was acceptable if not encouraged. This, however, was not exactly the kind of yelling I expected. An enormous array of people visit fast food restaurants located near major highways. I was the suburban SAHM sipping a Coke; these two dads each wore large-gauge, black plugs in their earlobes and spit dip into used plastic cups while they chatted. Nev

This morning in the preschool drop-off line, there suddenly appeared a snake in my car. I knew this because of the (suspiciously preschooler-sounding) hiss emanating from behind my seat. Without warning, another snake joined in from the passenger-side back seat too. I was surrounded. "OH NO! A SNAKE! A SNAKE" I called out. "Quick! What would scare a snake? ...A dog!" So I started barking furiously, even growling, but it was to no avail. Two silly snakes were still coming after me. My dog made fearful whines and ran off. "What else would scare a snake?" I said. (The snakes laughed at me. They laughed!) "A bear!" And so I started growling, albeit not very convincingly. I even swung my best paws in the air in the general direction of the snakes' reflections in my rear-view mirror. Did it scare them? Not even a bit. My bear lost its bluster and ran to hide in the bushes. I was running out of options. "OH NO! HELP! What will sca

A few months ago, my then-4-year-old son was a bit under the weather -- froggy throat, crusty nose, occasional cough. So we spent the morning of an otherwise beautiful fall day watching cartoons. Usually I stick to the educational stuff, but he saw a commercial for something about genies who grant wishes while getting into mayhem, and he begged to watch more. Who can resist a flying carpet story and a nemesis with long purple hair? Sure, why not. During a break in the mystical action, we saw this commercial for something called Barbie New Born Pups. In the ad, Barbie kneels next to a blonde dog of unrecognizable pedigree-- a golden retriever maybe? -- and gives it a loving scratch. The next thing you know, human hands push down on the dog's back, the dog crouches down a bit, and from out of the dog's middle region falls a puppy. There's no warning, no signs of labor, no backstory about a lovable mutt neighbor-dog who jumped over the fence a few months ago. Just BAM.