SummarySex and the single mother ... doesn't exist!
And I, Claire Marsh, should certainly know, because these
days my to-do list looks like this:
1. Bring daughter Zoë to a birthday party, where twenty
second-graders will be encouraged to play ice hockey.
2. Help Zoë with impossible school projects -- just how
is she supposed to create a complete ancient Irish village?
3. Bring Zoë on a series of play dates with obnoxious
kids. Hope that their nannies are actually paying attention,
because their Upper East Side mothers and Wall Street
fathers sure aren't.
Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my daughter. She was the best
thing that came out of my marriage. (What can I say about a
guy who dumped me for an older woman?) But there's something
seriously wrong when my daughter -- and my thirty-year-old
sister -- have better social lives than I do. After all, I'm
in my twenties; I'm still cute! When do I get my very own
play date?
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