So then…my friend Mindy sends me and her other pals an email asking if any of us have an outfit that her young daughter Amanda can wear to a school performance:

Mindy writes:
Does anybody have a poodle skirt we could borrow? Amanda needs it for a school concert.  Let me know. Thanks! — Mindy

I respond:
I do not have a poodle skirt. Or a poodle. I have a skirt. It is XL and long. Amanda could use it as a tent. If she needs a tent, let me know. — Darcy

Mindy writes:
I am surrounded by wise asses!!! — Mindy

I respond:
Yes — wise asses — and WIDE asses — hence, the XL skirt. – Darcy

– Darcy Perdu

(Are you a wise ass too? Give an example!  Did you ever have a Poodle Skirt? Or a poodle? Or a skirt? Share in the Comments Section below.)

The Los Angeles Times online article says:

“The human head, housed inside a bag, was discovered by a dog at the popular Bronson Canyon Park hiking trail. The Los Angeles Times adds that detectives are searching for other possible body parts nearby in the park, and that this is being considered a possible homicide.”

Let’s read that last part again:

“…this is being considered a possible homicide.”

I snort with laughter.

They find a HEAD — in a BAG –and they CONSIDER it a POSSIBLE homicide?

As opposed to what?

An accident?
“I accidentally popped my head off into that bag. Shit. I hate when that happens.”

A suicide?
“I committed suicide by eating my body — and all that’s left is my head. Because I draw the line at eating brains. That’s just gross.”

A hoax?
“Yes, that’s my head, but I’m not actually dead. My body is alive and well in Encino. I just removed my head for a short time since we’re not getting along right now. As soon as Head apologizes for its rude and inconsiderate behavior, then Body will re-attach. Please leave my head where you found it – as well as the bag. It’s Louis Vuitton.”

– Darcy Perdu

(Any news stories catch your eye lately that seem odd? Have you ever accidentally popped your head off into a bag? Do tell in the Comments Section!)

Loudly because the foot is encased in a cast, thanks to the fracture Chloe sustained at her 6th Grade Field Day.

So now Chloe, age 11, is sitting on her bed, already two weeks into the cast — and I’m trying to explain that her little “bird baths” of patting her skin with damp washcloths are just not adequate, in the most polite terms possible.

“You stink, Chloe. You stink to High Heaven. You need to take a shower right now.”

“No! The plastic bags don’t cover the cast well enough. The water will still get inside my cast and then the skin will be all disgusting like that photo on the wall at the doctor’s office! Did you see that kid’s skin, Mom, did you?” Her voice becomes a little high-pitched and I can tell we’re headed for a meltdown.

“OK, Chloe, fine, no shower, but at least a bath.” I duck into the bathroom adjoining her room, push down the plug, and turn on the warm water. “You can just stick your left leg out of the bath and we’ll get the rest of your body covered in soapy water then rinse – and you’ll finally be clean.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘no?’ Yes, yes, most definitely yes.” I say, grabbing soap and washcloths.

“No, Mom, that bathtub is filthy. Have you seen it? I’m not getting in there!”

I clench my teeth. The bathtub is not filthy, but Chloe has a slight OCD issue, so I pop into the bathroom a moment and return with a flourish. “OK, all clean. I just cleaned it! Now let’s get you in there.”

She folds her arms. “No, I’m not taking a bath. I.hate.baths.”

It infuriates me when she takes such a stubborn stance – it’s so, so, so – like me.

“WHY do you hate baths?”

“Because you’re dirty and then the water becomes dirty, so you’re lying there in your own filth!” she says.

I sigh. “Chloe, it won’t be filthy. We just need to get your body submerged in the water and soap you up then you can get out right away. Now come on.”

She begrudgingly trudges into the bathroom. I lower her in, the cast dangling out the side. I wash her hair, manage to get her all soaped up, and rinsed off – which are major feats of endurance on my behalf since she is squealing, complaining, and caterwauling the whole time.

She is terrified of getting the cast wet and apparently the only possible prevention is YELLING at me nonstop.

Finally, finally, she is ready to be pulled out of the bathtub.

She puts her other leg over the side of the tub to join the cast leg — her buttocks still submerged in the water. I grab a towel so that I can hold her hands and leverage her up and out of the bath without getting the cast wet.

“See, it wasn’t so bad,” I say. “You weren’t lying in your own filth. We got you nice and cle—“

“Errrr-Oh,” she utters, with a surprised look on her face.

I freeze. “What? What?”

“Warm water makes me have to—” She looks down, and there — spreading throughout the tub water is a golden liquid I can only describe as urine. URINE, PEOPLE!

It is all over her body — and because her hair is so long, the golden liquid is now swirling all through the hair that I just washed.

I give her a withering glare.

She gives me a giggle. Then a chortle and snort.
And before you know it, we’re laughing our asses off.

Yes, we have to drain the tub and start all over again to wash her hair and her body.

And yes, she prophetically predicted she would be lying in her own filth – and indeed she was.

But this time around, we’re laughing so much at nature’s little surprise that the washing goes pretty quick and easy.

In this latest Battle of Wills –
Mother-Daughter: 0
Mother Nature: 1

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Mary Chowdbury

(Any examples of stubbornness from your kids? Any bathtub oopsies? If you agree that casts are the WORST, let me know! Share in the Comments section!)

A Colorful “C*ck Sock!”

When my friend posts the above image on her Facebook page to playfully suggest these swimsuits for her friends’ hubbies this summer…

it prompts lots of comments from her pals and me – and I’ll admit there is not one mature comment amongst us.

Then it hits me. A brilliant idea for an invention.

If this tiny piece of fabric that only just barely covers the MALE private parts down below is considered acceptable “swimwear” –

then why don’t I invent a similar swimsuit to just barely cover the FEMALE private parts up top?

I will literally make a SOCK that fits each individual boob so snugly that there is no need for straps or clasps — or that unnecessary material that wraps around the back!

These will literally be socks that you simply pull onto each boob, then just walk out the door! Let your boobs roam free!

Lil Kim has the basic idea here – but no need for a fancy sparkly mini-fan – just grab a sock from your sock drawer and pull it on!

So what SIZE is most appropriate for YOUR boobalicious boobies?

Sweat socks — for the busty gal?

Anklet socks — for the more modestly-endowed?

Baby socks — for our flat-chested friends?

Knee socks – for those older swingin’ breasts that literally reach your knees?

And what more appropriate name for these new swimsuit tops than…

BOOB TUBES?

They are literally TUBES for your BOOBS!

I will even provide special Lopsided Boob Tubes for those of you with non-symmetrical bosoms – just mix n’ match an Anklet with a Knee Sock.

And imagine the color and design combinations you can create by raiding your sock drawer!

We can even knit socks to resemble your bosoms!

Special occasion? Black Tie affair? Tug these on!

Do you happen to have 5 nipples per breast? Then I have the perfect Boob Tubes for you!

And if you run out of socks, just grab a scarf – and voila – Bob’s your uncle.

Rock that scarf, Christina Aguilera!

Of course, my FAVORITE SCARF OF ALL TIME is from monster-munch.com –
because this scarf doesn’t HIDE the boobs – it CELEBRATES the boobs!

And look how delighted Grandma on the left is!

So while I work on creating my Boob Tubes for sale –

you no doubt want to know where you can pick up some “C*ck Socks” for Father’s Day.

I’ve looked everywhere and the only version I can find for sale right now is aptly called:    “The Tuggie”

http://www.spencersonline.com/product/pd-the-tuggie/

You’re welcome.

– Darcy Perdu

(Do you agree all the men in your life will LOVE this Father’s Day Gift? And will they wear it to the beach or lake this 4th of July? Would you buy my Boob Tubes invention – or are you going to totally steal my idea and just use your own raggedly ol’ socks? Who will be brave enough to send in the first photo?)

In the kitchen, I grab two chocolate Ding Dongs and a cold glass of milk, and head to the TV room with workbook and pencil, so I can settle in to watch the afternoon Million Dollar Movie. Life as a 5th grader is good.

I’m halfway through the movie, 100% through my snack, and 5% through my homework, when my Mom calls me to the back of the house, shuts the door and smiles.

I smile too, wondering what prompted this private meeting. I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky 10-year-old kid, so I assume it must be good news.

“Next week your Girl Scout troop is going to show you girls a film. So the troop leader suggested we prepare our daughters for what it’s about – and answer any questions you might have,” she says.

“OK,” I say brightly. “What’s the film about?”

“Well, it’s about an amazing monthly miracle – a special stage in a young girl’s life when she experiences some very important physical changes.”

Then she calmly and patiently explains the monthly cycle.

This is MY side of the conversation:

What?
What?
Wait. WHAT?

What are you talking about?
Women do what?
From where? WHERE?
Are you serious?
No really, are you serious?
I am calm.

For how long?
FIVE DAYS?
Oh my God. Won’t I die if I lose that much?
OK, OK, well maybe I can handle it, if it’s just five days.
Wait – five days EVERY MONTH?
For how many years?
What?
What?

Mom, Mom, you’re kidding, right?
You’re kidding, Mom.
I am calm.

When is this going to happen to me?
That soon?
Oh my God. That’s terrible.
A “miracle?” A “blessing?” It’s not a “blessing.” It sounds horrible!
“Falobian tubes?” “Ovreeze?” What are you talking about?

Who cares about babies? I’m 10. I don’t want babies now.
Why can’t it wait until then?
But why not?
Can’t you talk to somebody about that? It shouldn’t happen until you want to have babies.
You gotta talk to somebody about that – you gotta change that.

I just…I just can’t believe it. This happens to ALL women?
You?
Mrs. Hardison? Mrs. Mitchell?
My teachers? The nuns?

How long has this been going on?
Oh come on!
ALL women who EVER lived? Seriously?
What about pioneer women?
Really? Like pioneer women who lived out west in covered wagons?
CAVE WOMEN?
That’s crazy. That’s just crazy.
I am calm.

So what do you do when it happens?
Oh.
Yeah, I have seen that big purple box with the white rose on it in your bathroom sometimes.
That’s what it’s for?
I dunno — I just thought it was adult toilet paper or something.
Wait – pioneer women didn’t have those purple boxes. What did they use?
Seriously? Oh my God, Mom, I’m gonna be sick. This is so awful.
All of it. This is too much. Really, it’s just too much.

Who else knows about this?
Everybody?
Dad? Dad knows about this? My brothers?
Oh my God, how embarrassing!
Everybody in the whole world knows about this except me?
Oh, OK, so everyone older than me knows. But still, that’s like billions of people!
And they’ve all just been walking around keeping this big secret from me?
That’s terrible, Mom. Really. Terrible. Shame on them. Shame on them.

And men don’t do this?
They don’t have anything like this?
That’s pretty unfair, Mom.

This is just bad news. Bad news you’re giving me here, Mom.
And you know what? I’m not gonna do it.
No, I don’t have to.
I’m just not gonna do it.
Nope. No way, no how.
I’m not.
I’m not.
I’m not.
I AM CALM!!

*****

And the fact is — I am so traumatized by this revelation when I was 10 that I actually succeeded in avoiding this dastardly occurrence until I turned 15. Take that, menses!

But of course Mom was right – this monthly “blessing” and a healthy reproductive system produced my two beautiful babies –

one of whom is now a tall, handsome son –

and one of whom grew up to be a lovely young girl –

who I drew aside one day to tell her about…
an “amazing monthly miracle.”

Written by Darcy Perdu of www.SoThenStories.com

Original Illustrations for So Then Stories by Shelly Draven (shellydraven@yahoo.com)

(Who told YOU about this fabulously fun cycle? How did YOU react? Were you traumatized like me – or did you just go with the flow? (Oh, yes, pun ABSOLUTELY intended.) Have you told YOUR daughter yet? Share in the Comments Section below.)

“What kind of bad news, Sam?” I ask the broker on the phone. “Your client’s scheduled to move into one of our office buildings next week. He’s already signed the 7-year lease, so he can’t try to renegotiate terms now.”

“Well, no, it’s not the terms. It’s my client. Philip told me this morning that his company can’t lease your building,” the broker says.

“What? Why?” I ask.

“Well, the FTC shut him down, seized his documents, and froze his assets for allegedly advertising fraudulent government grant programs,” he explains.

“Are you kidding me, Sam? You’re his broker. You vouched for him. You gave us references who vouched for him. We’ve already paid your commission out of his deposit – but now we lost this tenant and have to start over looking for a new one? How could you not know he’s running an illegal operation?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s totally innocent,” says Sam. “But you know the FTC – if they can’t find evidence against ya, they’ll just falsify documents to prove you guilty.”

???

(Oh, yeah, I did hear that about the FTC – in Communist Russia — in the 50’s!  Not. Since when does the Federal Trade Commisson have a reputation for framing businesspeople?)

If I ever get arrested, that’s what I’m going to say: “Oh, I’m totally innocent — but you know the cops, if they can’t find evidence on ya, they’ll just plant it.”

(Hmmmm. Well, actually, that defense DOES work. As long as you’re a celebrity.)

– Darcy Perdu

(Anyone try to give you a lame excuse to get out of a deal? Ever been accused of fraud by the FTC — or Russian Communists? Ever planted evidence on someone – like a sibling, perhaps!?  Post a comment!)

A four-hour graduation ceremony.

Four hours of the college admin officials reading off names of the 732 college seniors that I don’t know, just so we can witness the 16 seconds it takes for my nephew’s name to be called and for him to accept the diploma.

I’ve flown cross-country for the event and have truly enjoyed spending time with my Mom and my sister’s family all weekend – and I’m delighted to witness my nephew’s accomplishment – but now is the hot, sweaty, mind-numbingly boring ceremony that I have to suffer through in the name of being a good auntie, sister, and daughter.

I had actually toyed with the idea of bringing a book! I love to read — and had, in fact, been reading a great book on the plane over to Florida which I could easily bring into the auditorium with me today.

But I could just imagine the shocked, stern look from my mother if I dared pull out a book at such a special occasion. And I could just imagine the hurt look on my sister’s face as I casually perused my tome while her first-born achieved his highest academic accomplishment. Not to mention, I would be a horrible role model for my other two nephews who are high school-aged. And I worry I’d get that disappointed shake of the head from my sister’s husband.

So I settle in for the long road ahead, on my hard metal chair, in the balcony, peering over the rail at the 732 college seniors on the main floor with my nephew. Their caps and gowns are a bright blue, against the backdrop of the thousands of friends and families who came to witness the momentous event.

As the speeches drone on, I am so out of my mind with boredom, I want to stick hot pokers in my eyes.

Then I see my youngest nephew next to me open a paperback and start reading!

My head snaps down the row to my sister to see if she has noticed this affront! But she is busy digging in her purse for her book! She hands a running magazine to her husband and her other son mumbles, “Where’s mine?” My sister reaches into her purse and hand him his book!

What the what! Are you kidding me?

I whip my head around to my Mom, to see if she is as shocked as I am – and she is fumbling in her purse for her book.

I kid you not.

My own mother. My upstanding, respectful, always appropriate mother. Et tu, Brute’?

The entire frikkin’ family each brought their own book to cope with this four-hour dull-athon – and I’m the only moron who was polite enough and caring enough and sweet enough to think I was supposed to pay respectful attention to the whole damn ceremony!

And did any of them think to let ME know their plan? Noooo.
And did any of them think to bring ME some reading material? Noooo.

I should ask my sister just like her son asked: “Where’s mine?” In fact, I should shout it LOUD in front of all these students and their families! WHERE IS MINE??!!

MINE is sitting on the table back in my frikkity-frik hotel room!

Oh the injustice.

So instead, I channel all my righteous indignation and outrage into paying SUPER CLOSE attention to everything that happens in the speeches, the ceremony, the calling of the graduates’ names.

I send telepathic messages to my nephew Brian, “I’m here for you, buddy. The rest of your family doesn’t care about you – they’re all reading BOOKS and MAGAZINES. But I’M paying attention. I’ll be able to converse with you about all the details of your special day. I’m on HYPER ALERT for you, buddy!”

When the ceremony finally ends, my ass has fallen asleep, and I am bored out of my skull — but I have painstakingly gathered all sorts of witty tidbits and thoughtful reflections to share with my graduating nephew.

I smile a little smugly as we exit the auditorium – me and the readers.

When we reach Brian, we all hug and congratulate him. Just as I am about to impress him with my observations, my sister asks him, “What’d you think of the ceremony?” –

– to which he replies, “Oh, it was so long! Thank God I had my book!”

I am not frikkin’ kidding.

This is a completely true story.

And I am still bitter about it.

*****
Always bring a book with you. Always. I don’t care if it’s a graduation, a recital, a wedding, or a frikkin’ funeral – BRING A FRIKKIN’ BOOK.

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Mary Chowdhury

(Tell me your tales of graduations, recitals, and ceremonies that made you want to gouge your eyes out. What have YOU done to pass the time? Have YOU seen people bring books to such occasions? Do YOU bring books? And if so, why the hell didn’t you tell ME to bring a book to that Florida graduation? Do tell in the Comments Section.)

It’s a gaggle of 20 kids in their Sunday best, hair slicked back, bows and veils, new bracelets, tiny ties, and shiny shoes. Today is the culmination of a year of religious study so they can now receive their First Holy Communion.

David and I beam at our son Tucker as he stands quietly, but fidgety, amongst his fellow Communicants. I’m dying to take a photo of Tucker, age 6 — but it’s frowned upon to do so in Church, during the Mass itself – and I don’t want to call any attention to myself, so I resist.

We have a great view because we snagged seats in a pew close to the altar on the right hand side. David and I are dressed up, proud as can be, and looking forward to celebrating with friends at brunch after Mass. Chloe’s three years old, so she’s “reading” a hymn book upside down.

Father Tom’s finishing up his sermon about the importance of First Holy Communion, which the children are only able to receive after they have completed the Sacrament of Reconciliation — the confessing of their sins.

He tells the parishioners, “It’s always interesting to hear the confessions of “sins” of 2nd-graders! They’re so young; they don’t get up to much mischief at this age!”

Everyone smiles.

Father Tom gently teases the congregation by saying, “However, I will say that some of the children confessed to using some very bad swear words — and I wonder where they heard that kind of language?”

Everyone grins.

Then Tucker, who is standing on the altar in front of the whole congregation, turns to face our side of the Church and POINTS HIS FINGER directly, and accusingly, at David and me.

Everyone bursts out laughing.

And stares directly at us.  (Us, the vile heathens who spew profanity in front of our impressionable young son.)

David and I are mortified. We scrunch down as low as possible in the pew.

Tucker is surprised at the reaction. His expression is basically: Father Tom asked a question – and I answered it – what’s the big deal?

I am going to kill him.

And yes, I will confess it to Father Tom.

And he’ll absolve me because it’s a purely justified homicide. Three Hail Mary’s and an Our Father, and I’m good to go.

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Stefano Marchio

(Have your offspring embarrassed YOU in public? Any mishaps in church or synagogue? Do YOUR kids know some salty swear words? Do tell in the Comments Section!)

I don’t want it in my car — and I don’t want to litter – and I’m too lazy to walk all the way to the trashcan — so I just put it under the windshield wiper of the truck next to me.

But as I turn to get into my car, I see a man exiting the store looking straight at me, frowning – and he is heading for the truck.

Oh, hell. He saw me!

What if he asks me, “Hey, what did you put on my truck?”

Should I say innocently, “Oh, I thought you might want that flyer.”

But I didn’t read the flyer, so what if it’s an ad for Weight Loss?

– or Hair Plugs?

– or Penile Implants?

– or For a Good Time Call…?

I don’t give him a chance to ask.

I just jump in my car and peel out of the parking lot!

– Darcy Perdu

(Have you been caught red-handed doing something you shouldn’t – or something embarrassing? Do you hate those flyers too? Do tell in the Comments Section!)

I beam because I want to make a good impression at this first get-together with this kid from Tucker’s new school. (I had tidied up the house, baked some “get-to-know-you” brownies for Andrew’s mom Linda, and even wore my glasses to appear more intelligent.)

“They’ve had a great afternoon,” I gush. “Thanks for letting Andrew come home with us after school. Tucker’s really enjoyed hanging out with him.”

Linda nods, picks up Andrew’s backpack, and heads for the patio door to collect her son. She says, “Yeah, I almost had to cancel though, because Andrew hadn’t made enough progress on his International Fair project yet. But he accomplished a lot last night, so he’s in pretty good shape.”

My pulse quickens. “What International Fair project?” I ask.

She looks at me as though I’m joking. “The one that’s due Monday.”

Today is Friday.

“Oh, is that, like an optional project, like for a Science Fair, or something?” I ask hopefully.

She turns to me, backpack on her shoulder, and says, “No, this is the big 6th grade History project they’ve supposed to have been working on all semester. Surely Tucker’s told you about it?”

I’m sure I’m turning bright red from embarrassment – and bright white from panic. I hope my intelligent glasses make my next question seem less pitiful.

“Um, no, he hasn’t mentioned it. What’s due on Monday?”

Well, now she sets the backpack down and turns her attention completely toward me, and braces herself to tell me some very bad news.

“OK, each child picks a country, then they need to write a report on 6 topics of that country, like climate, cuisine, politics, religion, stuff like that.”

“Oh dear,” I say.

“Each report has to be typed up and pasted on a tri-fold poster board with artwork and photos,” she continues.

“Well, um, OK,” I stammer. “I..I think we can work on that this weekend. I can run to the crafts store for the poster board. We can probab-“

“Get the flag materials there too,” she interrupts.

“There’s a flag?” I ask.

“Yes, and a costume.”

“WHAT?”

“Yes, this is why they gave the kids all semester to work on it! They need to make that country’s flag out of fabric and put it on a stick because they’ll carry it in the procession. Then they also need to wear a costume that’s native to the country – it can be homemade, or maybe you have a friend or family member who has something from that country, or—“

She stops as she sees me sit down, about to hyperventilate.

I whisper, “I don’t even know what his country is.”

She winces.

“OK, look, I hate to keep going, but you should know the kids also need to cook an authentic dish from their country.” She blurts it out very quickly like she’s ripping off a band-aid. “And they need to have enough bite-size servings for 40 students because all the 6th graders and their parents are invited to the International Fair – which is Monday.” Then super-fast she says, “And it’s 25% of their grade.”

She picks up the backpack again and turns toward the patio door. She looks back at me and I see indecision on her face. Should she flee the scene? Grab her son and run away, kissing him all over for having the good sense to tell her about the International Fair project months ago?

Or should she stay and comfort a fallen comrade in the Mommy Wars?

Please, my eyes beg her. Don’t abandon me. Explain more about this International Fair of which you speak. Help me, guide me, tell me my son’s frikking country, something, anything, for God’s sake. What’s your son’s country? Can our sons choose the same country? Can my son join your son and share his flag and his tri-fold and his cuisine? I beg of you…

Of course I don’t say any of those words out loud. But she can see them in my eyes, even behind the intelligent glasses. So she pats me on the shoulder, opens the patio door, and calls for Andrew.

The boys come running in. Linda says a nervous goodbye to an oblivious Tucker, hastily thanks me, hustles Andrew out the door, and snags another brownie on her way out.

Bitch. She annihilates me AND still has time to take a treat?

I shouldn’t have thought that. Of course she’s not a bitch. Why shoot the messenger when there is somebody much more appropriate to receive my wrath?

As the front door closes, I turn to Tucker, narrow my eyes, and ask in a chillingly low voice, “Did you know there was an International Fair project due on Monday?”

He stuffs a brownie bite in his mouth and says brightly, “Yeah, but it’s like a Science Fair or something – it’s optional.”

I grip the handles of the chair. “Tucker.It.Is.Not.Optional.It.Is.25%.Of.Your.Grade!”

He shrugs, says, “Huh,” and takes another bite.

I look at him with wonder that this truly carefree child emanated from the womb of a Type A hyper-organized, compulsive pre-planner like myself.

“Linda said the teachers have been talking about this International Fair all semester. Did you think they would spend that much time talking about an optional project?” I ask.

He screws up his face and lifts his shoulders in a gesture of Hey, who knows what’s on the minds of those crazy teachers?

I take a breath. “Tucker,” I say. “Do you even know what country you have? And if you chose a country, what did you think you were choosing it FOR, since you thought the project was optional?”

He finishes the last bite of the brownie and says, “Oh yeah, I chose Mexico. I thought it was like ‘Hey, where would you like to visit if you could pick any country?’ And I picked Mexico because I love Mexican food.”

“Well, I’m glad you do, Tucker. I’m glad you do. Because you are going to be making Mexican food all weekend. And a flag and a costume and 6 reports! YOU ARE GOING TO BE ALL MEXICO ALL THE TIME FOR THE NEXT 48 HOURS!!”

And thus began one of the most painful, stressful weekends in the history of Mother-Son school projects.

Ay Caramba!

– Darcy Perdu

Original Illustrations for So Then Stories created by Shelly at Shell Graphics (shellydraven2000@yahoo.com)

(Any projects that snuck up on you or your kids? Any surprise tests? Or how about the “oh-yeah-I-need-36-cupcakes-for-school-tomorrow-Mom” at 9:00 at night? Share your Stories and Comments below! I LOVE to read them!)