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6 Children I Help Tutor Who Will Never (Ever) Be President. Like anyone else, my memory of childhood is a silvery haze of hotel suites, European cafes and equestrian trophies, yet one memory in particular stands alone as the most vivid and seminal moment of my youth: during third grade, Ms.

6 Children I Help Tutor Who Will Never (Ever) Be President

Wheeler took my hand after lunch and led me away from the other children, off into the dark recesses of recess. Alone, she knelt in front of me and whispered softly, "I was up all night thinking about your spelling test, it was inspired. I couldn't put a grade on it because any letter I might add would only spoil its perfection. " She turned away from me for a moment, toward the polo fields and lap pool.

When she faced me again, I could see that she was crying. First order of business: a million trampolines It meant a lot to me, though for the honest encouragement she offered or the long kiss we shared directly after, I cannot say. Madison: Incoherent and Impudent Madison is in first grade and already an exceptional reader. Kingsley: Emotional Wreck. Understanding Hipsters: An Undercover Operation. Somewhere in America right now a Religious Studies graduate in white shutter shades is sucking the Pabst Blue Ribbon from his wispy mustache while listening to a pig-tailed girl offer her position on Metamorphosis.

Understanding Hipsters: An Undercover Operation

They are hipsters. I know this because I met them. They hang out in front of a Coffee Bean. They are Aubrey and Aubrey and they live for the moments when strangers suggest that name ought to be gender exclusive. They work part-time gathering signatures for obscure causes and spend the rest of their time arguing about Sartre and Derrida and who borrowed whose pants.

They are preparing for a revolution, slowly. For some, posing comes naturally. When I first met the Aubreys, they carried clipboards and told me that if I wasnt furious then I wasnt paying attention. "The American consumer is the raping and murdering foreign cultures," mustached Aubrey told me while jabbing a finger in my chest. Horrible? "There are sweatshops in Monaco? " "But I want to. Aubrey rolled his eyes. Bowie. Kidnapped Baby. Writing this past week has been difficult, thanks largely in part to the screams of new child in my house.

Kidnapped Baby

Before I go any further, anyone who feels anxious at the thought of me with offspring or about the general wellbeing of an infant in my care, I assure you, this is not what you think. I kidnapped it. I have every intention of returning the baby as soon as I am done with it, a little cleaner and possibly wiser than when I took it. First, however, I have to finish a groundbreaking piece for Women's Home Journal entitled 7 Best Ways to Breastfeed! I have unearthed four, (five assuming "under some stairs" counts as an idea). I spotted the baby I wanted in a Starbucks downtown. No silver spoon, but it will do. I say nanny because I assumed a mother would have given chase for more than six blocks. With all the distractions, I am a little under the gun to finish the piece.

Over the past week we have been everywhere together, save public since we are probably wanted. "Good.