A childhood friend of mine used to be so perpetually late that when we planned to take her with us somewhere, we told her we'd pick her up 30 minutes — sometimes an hour — earlier than we actually planned. Sometimes even then she would be late.
About 15 years ago, this same friend sent me one of those Christmas newsletters we all hate — the ones about children who play the violin with Isak Perlman or who write best sellers at age 8. That year, angered by all the bragging, I put together my own little newsletter, Vol 1 of which promised to be "The only one!"
"And then there are the Rountree," I wrote in 1994. "Stumbling and fumbling along, our story is one of generally average kids, extremely minor achievement, tepid success and quite boring activities in keeping with our average pedigree... though we did remove the overturned, abandoned car and refrigerator from our front yard this year." Our children, then 11 and 8, "spent much of 1994 doing average kid things like burping at dinner and fighting over the remote control."
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