I distinctly remember a conversation Brian and I had when we were dating. We were hiking to the top a mountain peak in our home-state Utah, and he asked me what I wanted to do with my life.

One of the first social rules I learned in kindergarten was how hurtful it was to call people names. The second rule was that people will eventually tease you.

Like generals heading into battle, my husband, Jeffrey, and I prepared for every possible condition in readying ourselves for the arrival of our daughter.

There was a very tall pine tree to provide cover, along with a second cover, this one fashioned out of a paper grocery store bag. And there was surveillance. Okay, maybe surveillance is too strong of a word. Let’s just say that I was on the look out. Constantly. For my mother.

I couldn’t find that ridiculous flier. The one that was accompanied by about 15 other compadres inside my kids’ backpacks at the end of the twins’ kindergarten and the youngest’s first preschool year.

Piano teacher with one room to rent, Steinway B to share for practicing, Sunset District. It couldn't have been more perfect if I had written out my ideal scenario and tacked it to the conservatory's "Housing to Share" rental notice board.