The family. We are a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms. . . and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.

When a child is locked in the bathroom with water running and he says he's doing nothing but the dog is barking, call 911.

Getting out of the hospital is a lot like resigning from a book club. You're not out of it until the computer says you're out of it.

There's something wrong with a mother who washes out a measuring cup with soap and water after she's only measured water in it.

To my way of thinking, the American family started to decline when parents began to communicate with their children.

Explain to me how he [her son] can ride a bicycle, run, play ball, set up a camp, swing, fight a war, swim and race for eight hours ... and has to be driven to the garbage can.

Never accept a drink from a urologist.