Shall we begin?

I was twenty years old when I gleefully bounded down the aisle to assume my new identity, Mrs. Jones.  My head was swimming with dreams of white picket fences and chubby cheeked cherubs that resembled Winnie the Pooh's Christopher Robin and Raggedy Ann's Marcella.  In this castle on a cloud everyone was cheerfully munching on organic homemade muffins in a white glove test home.  Mrs. Jones, of course, held all of this together in a glistening apron tied around her 24" waist, whistling while she worked in a pair of sensible high heels.
Happily Ever After turned out a wee bit different than I imagined.  My children DO remind me of fictional characters, it is just they are more Wendsday and Pugsley Addams than Christopher and Marcella.  The family home has actually been three houses, none of which would you even be able to find a white glove in to do the stupid test (and you can just forget about a matching pair).  There is such a vast quantity of frozen pizza consumed under our roof we almost qualify as a pizzeria and my husband repeatedly asks me why I'm dressed like I'm homeless.

So join these Joneses, Lora (me), Ariel (Daddy), Enzo (Pugsley), Clara (Wednesday), Aston (think male Junie B. Jones, I guess), and Baby Dorothy as we stumble though the American Dream.  I promise we are the easiest Joneses on Earth to keep up with.  You won't even break a sweat.