Are We There Yet (Paperback)
by Lori Clinch

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“Raising kids can be a humiliating experience. By weaving humor, with the antics of her brood, Lori Clinch makes the lessons learned, more palatable for herself and the reader! Lori has a unique manner of melding hip-youthlingo, current events, and her own inadequacies into captivating tales that will either bring the reader an outright burst of laughter, a smile, or a mental “been there, done that!” (Incidentally, she paid me to say the good stuff )”
— Pat Jones
Lori’s favorite cousin!!!

“I’ve been a big fan of Lori Clinch ever since she first sent me her column and challenged me to a humor duel. After losing gracefully—I’m nothing if not a gentleman—I’ve become a regular reader and stealer of her ideas. I’m especially happy to see that she has compiled them into a simple, easyto- plagiarize book form, as searching all over the Internet was becoming tiresome. I am proud to recommend this book to anyone with $15.95 in their pocket, or at least the ability to outrun bookstore security.”
— Erik Deckers, Laughing Stalk humor columnist
Laughing Stalk Syndicate

Exerpt from Book

When I learned I’d be a mother the first time around, I thought I’d be just the gal to do it up right.

I’d set down rules for my kids. No child of mine would run amok in a restaurant or throw a fit in Wal-mart. Nor would he ever cry in public, or embarrass me in front of guests.

My child would be taught who was boss from the get-go. With agendas and flow charts I’d organize our existence. No child of mine would keep me up all night. No sir, he’d nap on schedule and follow a routine.

"No child of mine," that’s a funny one and it went straight from my lips to God’s ears.

For all of my efforts, I was blessed with a child who cried day and night. He did not eat when I wanted him to. He never napped longer than 3.5 minutes and he made it painfully obvious from the start that he had never even heard of Dr. Spock.

Although I’d learned of Colic and fussy babies, I was not prepared for those sleepless months. Nor the Brillo-pad hair, or the dark circles that ensued. No amount of "spritzing" was going to change that look.

Then, as if I had not judged enough, there was the neighbor. The dear gal who lived next door and deemed it necessary to come by to "See the baby."

Lord love her, she brought along her two-year-old. A fine young specimen of animation if ever there was one.

As if he were delicate and fragile, she gently placed him on his feet. Then he bolted from the area faster than you can say, "Dump the room." As is the nature of the beast, he was into all that he could see. The little guy moved like a twister and had reflexes like a cat.

I sat there appalled, as I bounced my precious yet shrieking newborn on my lap. Although mine was screaming to the top of his lungs, I felt in control compared to her as she chased her little cherub around the house. Telling him, "no, no," and "for the love of Pete, stop that! "

As a first time mother, I was still foolish enough to believe my child would never act in such a manner. Mine would be well behaved and polite. Would never terrorize at large and, should we ever be invited to a formal dinner, mine would have knowledge of which was the proper fork for the scampi.

As her two-year-old demolished my house, I again thought. "No kid of mine!" And once again that thought must have gone straight to God’s ears.

Because long before my little darling turned two he was terrible. To the horror of my mother and father and anyone else who we’d bless with a visit, he became "Horrible Harry." They’d cringe when they saw us drive up, offer up prayers for peace during our stay, and breathe a deep sigh of relief at our passing.

So much for family support.

Yes sir, "No child of mine" caused me great trouble. No sooner had I judged another mother for lack of parental control in a restaurant, than my child would jump up on the table and begin to table-top dance.

When I thought that only bad kids with bad parents received phone calls from the school principal, I’d receive my very own summons the next day. Telling me my "precious" had disrupted class, picked on a classmate or, heaven forbid, drew a mustache on a picture of an authority figure.

I’d blame it on bad genetics that must be buried deep within the family tree. But I know the truth. I have judged parents who had only done their best. And in being judgmental, I received doses of my own medicine in large portions.

"No kid of mine." I’ll never say that again.

It turns out I learned just in the nick of time too. Because not long ago, I was put to the ultimate test when I bumped into an acquaintance at the mall. Standing next to her was her teenage son who was sporting a brand new Gothic look. With his lovely black trench coat, dark lipstick and pierced brows, I wanted to stare. To be completely honest, I wanted to laugh myself silly.

That little "no child of mine" voice started whispering somewhere in the back of my head. But I suppressed it. For I am nothing if not a woman who learns from experience.

"Nice look," I said to him convincingly as I patted him on the back. "Very creative, you’ve really outdone yourself."

Then quickly before I could even entertain the notion, I turned to his poor dear mother and said, "And it’s certainly no fault of yours."