I will never understand children. I never pretended to. I meet mothers all the time who make resolutions to themselves. 'I'm going to ... go out of my way to show them I am interested in them and what they do. I am going to understand my children.' These women end up making rag rugs, using blunt scissors.

The odds of going to the store for a loaf of bread and coming out with only a loaf of bread are three billion to one.

Everyone is guilty at one time or another of throwing out questions that beg to be ignored, but mothers seem to have a market on the supply. "Do you want a spanking or do you want to go to bed?" Don't you want to save some of the pizza for your brother?" Wasn't there any change?

After age twelve, birthdays should be as private as hernia surgery.

Humorists can never start to take themselves seriously. It's literary suicide.

Families aren't easy to join. They're like an exclusive country club where membership makes impossible demands and the dues for an outsider are exorbitant.

Sometimes I can't figure designers out. It's as if they flunked human anatomy.