I run a personal escort service. Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. It's not that kind of business. I'm my four-year-old son's personal escort.

What is it these days with the Oblivious Factor? Whether we're driving, shopping or walking down the street, we are so wrapped up in something else other than looking to see if we're blocking someone's way or slowing down traffic, that we pretty much become a nuisance not only to others, but a hazard to ourselves.

No one ever told me that when I became a mom, that I'd also have the dubious distinction of becoming a human coat rack.

It's bedtime, and Emi's asking for a drink before she goes to sleep. But tonight her usual request is accompanied by a more ominous directive. "Mommy," she says, her face solemn, "when you come back, we have to talk."