Twenty-eight-year-old Sean McGillin is the picture of health, until he fractures his leg while in-line skating in New York City's Central Park. Within twenty-four hours of his surgery, he dies. A thirty-six-year-old mother, Darlene Morgan, has knee surgery to repair a torn ligament in her knee. And within twenty-four hours, she has died.
Form: subject + first form of the verb I write. He writes. She writes. You write. They write. Carefully notice the marker -s in the second and third sentences. When the subject is a singular verb we add the marker -s to the verb in a simple present tense. The simple present tense is used [...]
Kids: they are the light of your life—and the enemy of all things fragile, intact, and clean. But why cry over spilt milk . . . or paint . . . or the entire contents of a full-size swimming pool? A testament to the messiness of childhood (and parenting), and a memorial to the household items that perished along the way, here are never-before-seen photos and outrageous stories of VCRs jammed with toys, toilets clogged with clothes, and furniture accented with permanent marker. Torn-up computer keyboards and torn-out hair, botched family photos and mustard-covered treadmills—nothing is off limits to your darling, destructive offspring.
