Wednesday night out didn't happen because of schedule conflicts - between business travel and babysitter conflicts, it's hard to get a bunch of busy women together week after week. No problem, I have plenty to do.

But because of the conflicts I haven't caught up with the possiblemaybepotential sewing teacher. Not that I have time to schedule any sewing classes at the moment.

But that reminds me - while we were in Miami a couple of weeks ago, Boss and I were walking downtown to our destination, past the blocks that are apparently all fabric stores. I was ogling the bolts of fabric, and I said I wanted to learn to sew. He made a noise that was part snort of disbelief, part laugh, and was followed by a comment about "Yeah right, like you have time for that!" He has a point there. Yet, I'll show HIM! Someday.

I've been quietly cruising the blogworld and trying to decide what is "safe" to comment upon - I'm pushing the envelope here. Another blog (which shall remain nameless because I'm not trying to start some sort of flamewar with the commenters upon it, just express my opinion in the privacy of my own home, er, blog) posted a link to this article. And for the life of me, I can't figure out what the fuss is about. To read the comments, this father is enslaving and abusing his offspring for his own greedy purposes. Where does it say that? He says he's working long hours, and to spend time with his kids and include them in his working life they help out in the office. Is this any different from generations of kids who helped out in the family store or on the farm or restaurant or hardware store to hang around with dad at work? I'm missing something here, or is the reaction that is this inherently evil because he's a lawyer? Granted, the "mock employment contract" sounds a bit over the top as he describes it, but he ain't a warm-fuzzy writer and apparently he was trying to use it as a learning tool. We don't know his kids it may be totally appropriate for them and they enjoyed the idea.

My own kids helped out at my office from time to time at that age. I've worked for and with the Boss (who is not actually my boss now but that's too complicated to explain) for over a decade now (God we're getting old) in very high paper volume complex commercial litigation, and nearly always with too few hands on hand to handle the paper. From time to time we'd ask my kids if they wanted to earn a few bucks filing, indexing, assembling exhibits, making copies or doing some data entry or what-have-you. They got paid, they had fun hanging out with Mom (and Boss, who is like their uncle at this point) at work, and they saw what I did for a living and they don't want to do it. We cured them of any TV-driven images of law firm life (though Girl still toys with law school in the future, maybe,someday, she is thinking state attorney's office or some other public service sort of thing.) It was a good thing all around.

A lot of our parents and grandparents grew up helping out in the family business after school or during the summer. It's a frickin' Norman Rockwell image of American Life. When did this concept of a family sharing work that supports the family become tantamount to child abuse? Sheesh.

So I'm baffled by how this poor dude is getting labeled as toxic waste for a) working his ass off to run a solo practice; b)sharing the work involved to make the business that supports their family run with his kids; and therefore: c) letting them see what dad does to support the family and participate in the running of his business and feel involved and care about what he does. That rat bastard!

Okay, I'm done ranting. For now.

Today's mail brought some of my ebay score - vintage patterns and a big honkin' cone of what is allegedly sport-weight cotton (but looks thinner to me) in a cream color, for shawls. I think there are three Trinity Shawls on that sucker. Right now I'm going to finish the last cat blankie (round, crocheted, Homespun Tudor). I brought boxes home to pack up kitchen stuff and if I need an extra, cat blankie stuff. Saturday they go to the post office. I need to be stopped, before I make another.