This morning we had parent/teacher interviews with both the girls’ teachers. I wont reveal the details of the discussions obviously but I will say that there is an issue with one of our children that is of some concern and we will be monitoring things closely, as will her teacher.

One of our kids is not playing nicely with some of her fellow students. She is doing well academically, but there are some shenanigans going on during the recess and lunch breaks that need to be addressed quickly.

My younger brother struggled to get along with some of his peers, and his troubles were exacerbated by a general lack of interest in school and a sometimes difficult relationship with his teachers (who were not at all curious about why he might not like school so they just stuck him in the corner and told him to be quiet… thank goodness modern education allows for different learning styles in students… but I digress).

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A few years ago I wrote a column about how that upcoming summer’s gas was predicted to top $2.50 per gallon.  At the time that seemed outlandish. Now it just sounds quaint.

Gas. My husband once noted, dryly, that I was less “stay at home mom” and more “gassing around three counties mom.” He had a point. In truth, we weren’t so much raising our children in the country, as raising them in their car seats. I once asked our pediatrician about the risks of curvature of the spine from the hours spent in the car as we commuted to distant parks, playgrounds, shopping venues, and the homes of friends. She assured me my babies would be fine. (A little shorter than nature intended, maybe, but otherwise just fine).

This year, finances are tough and seem poised to get tougher everyday. Like most anyone with an ounce of sense, we will be looking long and hard at how much we spend on gasoline (and other luxuries like, oh say, food) and adjusting our expectations accordingly. If we lived anywhere near close to anything other than cows, I’d make outlandish claims to walk or bike everywhere I needed to go this summer. In fact, since we are approximately 100 miles from everywhere I CAN make wild, outlandish claims like that, and then act disappointed when I realize it won’t really work. So consider that done.

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When I heard Michael Jackson died, I felt like part of my youth had permanently disappeared.

For me, learning of his death is now one of those moments where I’ll always remember what I was doing at the time. I was at Kohl’s, looking for shoes. I had to put down the Dana Buchman flats and fire up my BlackBerry to make sure what I overheard was, in fact, true.

Being a forty-something woman, Michael’s music was a huge part of my teenage and college years. I went through a phase where I wanted to be a “Thriller” dancer. I practiced that damn Moon Walk for hours after seeing him slide backwards during a “Billie Jean” performance. I consumed alcohol more than once listening to “Bad.” The jukebox (yes; I am dating myself now) at my favorite neighborhood pub had lots of classic Jackson Five tunes.

And, who could forget the lip-sync in college where my whole sorority performed “We are the World.” I was Ray Charles. Ah, good times. Why we didn’t win that talent show, I’ll never know.

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The Interwebs have been aflutter over Jon and Kate Gosselin. Who did what to whom? How much of a role did the cameras play in the disintegration of their relationship? Did their greed compromise their judgment as parents and as life partners? Who cheated on whom? It’s easy to point fingers, especially since they’ve chosen to live their lives so publicly.

I have no great sympathy for their claims that the media should back off, respecting their privacy as a family. When you open your life as they have (and as I have on my blog), you have to take the good with the bad. There will be those that love you no matter what. There will be people who will celebrate every stumble and heartbreak you experience. Others will question everything you do. It’s part and parcel of the deal.

In the end, though, what we have is a couple who is ending their relationship in a very public way. Regardless of my opinions about their relationship and parenting choices, I can’t help but watch their faces and see so much that is familiar.

I saw it months ago, the lack of physical contact, the emotional detachment, the harsh words that were only half-joking. They got further and further from each other. Soon, that interview couch could not have been long enough.

Eyes were swollen. Walls were up. The end was near.

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Yes. I know how to cook.

No, I do not believe “Miracle Whip” and Kraft macaroni and cheese are their own food groups.

Yes, I get that your homemade sauce stewed from tomatoes you grew your very own self with seeds you obtained from Tibetan Monks on your epicurean tour of the world last year are the epitome of all that is good and decent in the food world.

I understand that you are far too good for “pedestrian” fare such as turkey on Thanksgiving or ham for Easter. It’s something gamey under glass all the way for you. I get that a store-bought cake for any occasion may, in fact, prove fatal.

I understand that the award winning cooking blog that garners something like 10,000,000 hits per minute with family friendly dishes that readers rave about is beneath you.  You wouldn’t touch barbecued meatballs, oatmeal crispies, or “smashed potatoes” with a ten foot fork.

You live to post snide comments on recipe pages and sniff over store-bought sauce. You have a larder full of high quality cooking wines and you’re not afraid to use them.

We get it, we do. You’re better than us. More educated.  More refined. You have an exquisite palate and mad kitchen skilz.

But please, oh please, could you just shut up about it already? The rest of us just really want to cook - and eat - in peace and sometimes only an authentic, old-fashioned, straight-from-the-freezer-case tator tot will do.