My phone rang at 9:00 a.m. this morning and I answered in a semi-conscious haze. My friend, Linda, said, “Oh, were you sleeping?” At least I think that’s what she said. It’s always embarrassing to answer that question because sleeping past 6:00 a.m. is a sign of a deficient personality or a character flaw. However, I am excused because my daughter was up half the night throwing up. Nevermind the fact that I loathe mornings and never willingly wake up before 9:00 a.m. (though I do unwillingly wake up by 8:00 a.m. every morning).

My daughter complained last night that her forehead and stomach hurt. I love how specific she is–she never says, “My head hurts,” but only, “My forehead hurts.” She threw up in the sink last night before bed and I optimistically hoped the worst was over. It was not.

However, a stomach virus in a five year old is so much easier than a stomach virus in a baby or toddler. Throughout the early dawn hours, she’d call out, “Mom, I threw up in the bowl!” and I’d shout back, “Good job, honey!” and go back to sleep. Am I a terrible parent? An inhuman monster? Perhaps. I did get up with her throughout the night. The worst happened while I was away though, last night at 10:20 p.m. when she woke up and threw up on her pillow and bed. My husband had to deal with chocolate pudding vomit in her hair–he left the bed mess for me to handle after I rushed home.

I wish I could relay to you some of the drama occurring in my life, but I cannot. Suffice it to say that there have been a lot of tears (not mine) and shaking of heads. I can tell you that Saturday morning I had to be at a Science Fair at 8:00 a.m. with my son, that my husband resigned from his job (he starts another on July 1), that two of my kids have vomited, and that another boy appeared at my doorstep (bringing up the neighbor total number of boys to 14).

I have put away the mayonnaise jar four times today, even though I personally don’t eat mayonnaise.

I committed the unpardonable sin tonight.

I did the laundry.

This morning, one of my teenagers informed me that he had no pants to wear. I told him where I keep a secret stash of pants (the storage room) and, thus, he didn’t not have to attend church half-clad. (I kid. The storage room is a mutated closet where I hang their dressy clothes, like the black corduroy pants I bought each of the boys to wear for our Christmas photograph.)

This evening, I scooped up the discarded black corduroy pants off the laundry room floor and pushed them into the washing machine with other dirty duds. The laundry is a little backed up because over the weekend, that happens. I venture out of the house and in my absence the laundry copulates and gives birth to more dirty laundry.

About twenty minutes later, would-be-half-clad boy comes out (wearing pajama pants) and says, “Mom, did you wash my pants?” and I say, “I think they’re in the washer. Why?” and he informs me that his wallet was in the pocket.

“Bummer,” I said with characteristic care. “What was in it?” I’ve washed it a half dozen times before.

“Money!” he said

“Money can be washed. Anything else?”

“My YMCA card and two cards from Game Crazy.”

“Everything will be fine.”

And he exits.

Moments later, “MOM! MY iPOD IS IN MY POCKET!”

Me: “!!!!!”

Him: “MOM!”

I slide my feet back into my slippers, scurry to the laundry room and see that the machine has twenty-five minutes remaining in its cycle. It is a front-loading machine. I cannot open it mid-cycle or the water will rush out like a waterfall. So, I say, “Well, too bad. Maybe it’s not in there.” He is widely famous of his absentmindedness and often misplaces things. For all I know, the iPod is upstairs on the bathroom counter or in the living room under a couch. Why panic until the cycle ends?

Then the world collapses from the massive outrage of one 14-year old boy.

He simply could not believe that I had the nerve–THE NERVE!–to wash his iPod. I said, “Shane, I do not check pockets. All I did was my job. I do laundry.”

He said, ‘WELL! THANKS A LOT, MOM! THANKS A LOT!” He said some other things he doesn’t have the sense to regret.

Of course, I advised him that the responsibility for pocket-emptying is his. He raged on and on and I let him, only pointing my bony finger in his face to inform him that if he didn’t like the way I did laundry, he could do his own laundry. In fact, I may have said, “FINE! THEN FROM THIS SECOND ON, YOU WILL DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?!” He disappeared into his room, only to reappear a bit later.

He expressed incredulity that I never said I was sorry and I said, “SORRY!?! FOR DOING THE LAUNDRY? FOR WASHING DIRTY CLOTHES LEFT ON THE LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR?”

I did finally interrupt his dramatic presentation of adolescent angst to let him in on the fact that I purchased replacement insurance for his iPod for such an occasion as this.

And I did a Google search with these terms: “washing machine iPod help.” There is some anecdotal evidence that an iPod may survive a ride through the washing machine.

However, I am fairly certain I will not survive the life cycle of the common household teenager.

Taking care of babies is so much easier than taking care of teenagers. As a new parent, I had so much angst, so much fretfulness, so much worry . . . and really, I should have saved all that emotion for now when I am living with twin 14-year olds. Babies are a breeze. Teenagers, not so much.
Would anyone ever become a parent if they had to start with a greasy-haired kid who finds it outrageous that his parent might criticize his work-ethic?

I’m just saying.

The other thing about teenagers is that they are beginning the process of separating and stretching out to become an individuals. And inevitably, as they grow, they move away–imperceptibly at first and then in giant leaps and bounds until you gaze across an impassable gulf at this child who used to snuggled into your elbow while you read a story to him.

Parenthood is about breaking apart my heart and rearranging it again in a new, surprising way. That, and about cleaning up messes you never knew another human being could make without a trace of guilt. (And then, they act surprised when I demand that they STOP PEEING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR!)

I just had the most ridiculous argument with my 14-year old son. I had just put my daughter to bed and came downstairs to sign onto my computer. I use a laptop, but it sits on my black, faux-marbletop desk in the family room (adjacent to the kitchen). Not long ago, we got a third computer which sits on a small desk to my right. The box-part of the computer (yes, that’s the technical term), sits on the floor between our desks.

My desk chair, a hideous garage-sale find with royal blue upholstery and wheels (one which falls off at the most timid touch), had been wheeled to the other side of the kids’ desk. The wheel had fallen off.

I replaced the wheel and shoved the chair back to my desk.

Then I noticed that the computer on the floor had been pulled out from its resting spot. I said, “Hey, why is this computer sticking out?” The boys all claimed ignorance. I shoved it back, scraping my fingertips in the process.

I sat on my blue chair, pushed the button on my laptop and . . . . “HEY! WHERE IS MY MOUSE?!” I have a wireless mouse, which until this very night has never tiptoed off my desk, never wandered into the kitchen, never swan-dived onto the floor. One son said, “How would we know? We didn’t do it!”

Then my other 14-year old came in, knelt on the floor, laid on his stomach and reached far under my desk to retrieve the mouse. He claimed to have no idea how it might have migrated to the floor, under my desk.

I am relentless, a Pit Bull who just cannot unlock its jaws. I had to know what happened to my mouse. How did it fall down and under my desk? I called all three boys to me and demanded to know.

My son took this as a great insult. He informed me that I needed to learn to look around, to figure out problems on my own. “Do you think perhaps you could solve your own problems?” he said to me in that exact sarcastic tone I use with him. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to slap him, so I stood to my full height (which is an inch or two shorter than his full height) and said, “I HAVE BEEN SOLVING MY OWN PROBLEMS FOR FORTY-TWO YEARS!” and he said, “Why do you always blame us?” and I said, “I am not blaming you. I am ASKING QUESTIONS because ASKING QUESTIONS IS A GOOD WAY TO FIND INFORMATION!” (I learned that from Sesame Street, I kid you not.)

He accused me of yelling and I said, “I AM NOT YELLING!” and we went in circles, dosey-doeing our way until I was positively dizzy. I never, ever did find out how my faithful mouse of several years found itself stranded under the darkness of my desk. At last, I waved my bony finger at my son and said, “This conversation is over. We will no longer discuss it. I mean it. Go. Go now.” He left, but I could tell that he wanted to give me some more helpful tips to improve my parenting skills.

What he should do is write a parenting book now while he still knows everything.

Over the past week, I’ve seen these twins separated at birth on several talk shows. (They co-wrote a book about their experience called Identical Strangers.) Despite being raised apart, they share much in common from mannerisms to their educational choices. (And almost everything in between.) I find their story relevant to me because I am raising adopted twins, albeit fraternal twins.

Fourteen years ago, we waited with great anxiety for the birth-mother to choose us. I believed wholeheartedly that Nurture would triumph over Nature in an arm-wrestling contest. Motherhood would be all about providing an appropriate, loving environment. I would mold my children into my image and they would become straight-A students with an affinity for the piano and a love of literature. They would be polite and gentle and funny. My only worry was that they might be ugly.

I discounted the idea that nature and their genetics would dictate the course of their lives.

I was so wrong.

My biological son is 9 years old. He shares not only physical traits with his father, but also personality traits. He is the sort of child who sets his own alarm, gets up early to do his homework, then takes a shower (without being asked) and plays with gusto until it’s time to go to school. At school, he listens, follows directions and excels in every subject. (I like to think he got that from me.) He has an optimism and a persistence that will serve him well. And he’s hilarious.

If he’d been my only child, I would have dislocated my elbow patting myself on the back. I would have been an insufferable, smug parent, one who believed that my careful choice of educational toys resulted in my boy’s brilliance. I would have thought that his success was due to my excellent mothering skills. I would have peered down my nose at other mothers with their difficult children and reluctant students. I would have blamed them for their children’s behavior and destiny.

On the other hand, if I didn’t have my 9-year old, I would consider myself an utter failure as a parent. Over these past fourteen years, I have repeated myself like an insistent parrot. I have hovered over my boys, insisting that they do all the math problems. I have pointed out that laundry goes into the laundry room. I have lectured and pointed my finger and on occasion, stomped my feet in frustration. My boys shrug off my parenting like a coat that does not fit. They refuse to bend to my will, to fit into the mold I expected.

Living with them is a lot like living with strangers. They do not act, think or behave like anyone I know. When I make jokes, they look at me in confusion. (The other day, one of them demanded, “WHY CAN’T BRANDON SPEND THE NIGHT?” They wanted a sleepover on a Saturday night, which is against family rules because sleepovers on Saturdays make Sundays too hard. After offering a bunch of reasons only to be met with arguments, I said, “It’s against my religion,” and the son in question said, “That’s not in the Bible!” I laughed at his indignance. “It’s a joke!” I said. These boys do not “get” sarcasm, which is my primary love-language.)

So, stories like the twins separated at birth give me hope. I can stop fretting and loosen my grip just a little. I cannot control these kids. They are who they are. I’m merely along for the ride, hoping that they’ll believe me when I tell them we should turn left at the corner. If they don’t, we might get lost for a while, but I’m sure (relatively sure) that we’ll all end up at our destination sooner or later.

I’m just the mother, not the Grand Ruler of the Universe. I need to remember that. I must not take their rejection of my mothering skills personally.

Unsympathetic. That’s me. When one of my kids chooses a stupid action which results in an injury, after checking for blood and consciousness, I tend to roll my eyes and say, “Well, you should be more careful.” I rarely swoop in with a flurry of hugs and concern. In the old days when I blamed myself for being imperfect and measured myself against Ma Ingalls of “Little House on the Prairie,” I would have considered this proof of my failure as a mother.

Now, I just view this as a personal quirk, an endearing quality, one of those weird things about me that make me myself and which also makes me rational during emergencies. I regret that I’m not all sweetness and light, in the same way I regret that my right pinkie toe insists on rolling to the right, but what can you do, really? I’m pragmatic. (Once, I observed out loud to a friend of mine, “You’re so pragmatic!” and I think she felt insulted, but I meant that as a sort of compliment. Isn’t it better to be realistic than bubbling over with pointless emotion?)

This afternoon, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. Here in the Pacific Northwest our rain is usually delivered without drama. We just tolerate day after day of drizzle and gloom, no fuss, just muss. No light shows, no audio.

The kids (only three here at the moment, age 9, 9 and 5) were dazzled, and one of them (a visitor), said, “I’m shaking. I’m terrified of thunder. Once, when I was four, I was getting into my pajamas and the thunder hit and I fell over.” And I, Miss Sympathetic, said, “Oh, well, you’re fine. Go play. It’s just a storm.”

And a little later, I followed that comment with, “Hey, look! Stop speaking your phobias aloud because she is borrowing that from you!” I finally told my daughter that storms don’t kill anyone. (At least not here in the Northwest, at least not often, at least not in the house, not while I am in charge, so there.)

My tolerance for fear is low. Either something terrible will happen or it won’t. No need to freak out. Save that emotion for something that matters like wondering whether your children will ever really grow up and and leave the house. Also, will someone please tell me why everyone who lives in this house except for the teenagers is capable of putting their dirty laundry in the laundry receptacle I put in the bathroom? They must be blind; how else to explain the dirty clothes discarded next to the basket?

And in conclusion, I’d like to mention that my family room ceiling still has a hole in it because the leaky shower drain has yet to be fixed. (I think our friend, Mr. Fix-It, has forgotten us.)

I work now from 9 p.m. until midnight, so by the time I get to sleep, it’s close to 12:30 a.m. (What job? you say. I’m employed by a website as a community manager: think of me as a security guard in pajamas. For almost a month now, I’ve been working four nights a week.)

This may explain my fatigue-induced delirium. When the alarm shrilled this morning, I snapped it off, stood up, circled my room in confusion and went back to bed. For two minutes. Because everyone knows those two extra minutes of sleep mean all the difference between perkiness and sluggishness. Also, those two extra minutes give me enough time to lie to myself, to make fake promises about napping later, about going straight back to bed the second I return home from my walk.

Like talking with a mental patient, I nod and purport to believe myself and so, I pull on my exercise clothes, fish around for a pair of socks that won’t slip down my heel while I walk and sneak quietly out of the house so no one wakes before I go.

September mornings would win a beauty contest if such a contest were held for months. The air is clear, chilly but not cold, while the opaque sky waits for the morning sun to paint it blue. The waters of the Puget Sound look like glossy marble, barely mottled with movement. After I open the door and gulp in the morning air, I congratulate myself for my wise decision. I meet my walking partner at the door of her house and off we go.

Walk and chat, walk and yawn, walk and say good morning to those we pass along the streets. We walk for an hour, finishing our route by striding up a few hills, breathing heavily, feeling our forty-two year old muscles contract with the effort. By the last straightaway, my hair forms a frizzy halo around my naked face which I can only hope distracts from my puffy eyes. My friend always looks glowing with her straightened hair flowing around her shoulders like a runway model. At least I can out-walk her up the hills, small consolation though it may be.

By the time I pull into my own driveway, I remember that I promised to watch the neighbor boy each morning for two weeks. There will be no napping, now or later. At 12:35 p.m., I’ll have to take him to kindergarten. I remember my afternoon obligation to babysit the one-year old baby for two more weeks. I remember that I need to wash my 9-year old’s football pants before football practice. But first, I need to make him lunch and sign his planner. (Question: Do I tell his teacher that I kept him home from school yesterday to take him and his sister to the fair? Answer: Yes. May as well.)

The kindergartener arrives. I wake up my teenage twins and demonstrate the technique for trimming the fence full of ivy. (They have the rest of the week to work on this big yard project.) I decide to vacuum and one thing leads to another and by the time the boys have come inside to make lunch (and complain, “there’s nothing for lunch!”), I have fallen into the abyss that is their room and I am possessed by the devil of annoyance and I can’t stop myself from launching one sarcastic remark after the next: “Thanks, boys, I really appreciate your leaving your dirty socks everywhere,” and “Oh, this is great! I always wanted to sweep up a ton of disgusting old popcorn off the floor!” and then my fake sweet tone shifts and I shriek, “SHANE! COME HERE!”

He wanders into the room holding a pan of noodles. I point to a coat hanger that’s been bent into a circle. I say, “DID YOU DO THAT?!” and he says, “Yeah.” Last night, he was sitting on the couch in his room, holding a coat hanger and I said in a clear and direct voice, “Do not destroy that coat hanger.” I know my son. He cannot resist the easy allure of destroying something that is destructible.

Yet, here was the evidence, a destroyed white coat hanger on the floor. First of all, hello, disobedience of my direct command . . . and second, why do my boys think that the floor is their personal trash can? I order him to pick it up and take it to the outside trash and he leaves the room with his pan of noodles . . . and does not return until I yell again.

By the time I vacuum in their room, the boys are hostile and defensive because I’m so frustrated and annoyed with their lack of hygiene and tidiness. Their attitudes need a major adjustment and I suppose mine does, too, but I am justified and they are not. They will not see this for another fifteen years, I approximate. All they see is their mother freaking out because they left an empty juice box under their desk and broken pencils (who is breaking the pencils around here?) scattered among the dirty socks on the floor. This bewilders them. Adam puffed up his shoulders and says, “Mom, you have gone too far now!” and I can’t help myself. I laugh at his anger because he looks exactly the same as he did when he was four years old. He is now 5′10″ tall, though, and finds my laughter deeply offensive.

I feed the little kids lunch and take the kindergartener to school. I start to read the newspaper, but the baby arrives before I get through much of it. (I squandered my time between kids checking email.) I settle into the recliner to feed the baby his bottle and the phone rings, which sets off another phenomenon I don’t get. Why does the phone ring the second I’m indisposed? And why don’t the kids hear me shouting, “GET THE PHONE! GET THE PHONE!”? At any other time, they race me for it.

The day slips away and yet I have no idea how to transform the pound of ground turkey in the fridge into some kind of delicious dinner. I’d settle for an edible dinner, truth by told, but alas, no ideas. (Well, maybe . . . soft tacos? Which the kids will sneer at . . . or turkey burgers . . . but I have no buns . . . meatloaf? Takes too long to bake.) My 9-year old goes to football practice with his dad at 5:30 p.m., so dinner must be cooked and served before he leaves.

At least I washed and dried his football pants.

Friday, August 31:

Friday . . . one student in school, two students awaiting their start-date of September 17. One preschooler who alternately yearns to grow up and then tells me she is never going to school. Ever.

My husband has decided that every Friday night will be Date Night, and so every Friday afternoon has turned into Frantically Clean the House and Listen to the Preschooler Cry About the Babysitter Coming Over Afternoon. Which, believe me, is as fun as it sounds. Our 9-year old went to spend the night with his best friend and the neighbor came to spend the night here, just ensuring balance in the universe. (Four kids under the roof at all times. The universe demands it.)

We went to dinner at Applebee’s (we had a gift card!) and then we walked on a local 3.5 mile trail.

Saturday, September 1:

I took my daughter with me to run birthday-party related errands. First, the grocery store to buy the balloon she saw a week ago that I had previously refused to purchase. (A Sesame Street bus balloon, of all things, a show she has disdained for at least three years.) Then to the Dollar Store for more helium balloons and then onto Costco to pick up the cake and a hundred bucks’ worth of other stuff I didn’t know we needed until it jumped into the cart while I wasn’t looking. This is why they check the receipts at the door, you know, because the merchandise is always hitch-hiking in unsuspecting customers’ carts.

The birthday party started at 3 p.m. and although the weather forecast was iffy in previous days, on Saturday, the sun shone and the temperature hovered around 75 degrees. The pool was mostly deserted, so Grace and her four little friends swam to their hearts’ content.

The only glitch occurred when my husband lit the birthday candles (five candles!) and the wind blew them out before she had a chance. (Our rendition of Happy Birthday was slow, I guess.) My husband said, “You only brought two matches!” which was true. The big box of matches I keep in the kitchen was down to two measly matches, but I thought two matches for five candles was a pretty excellent ratio. I failed to consider the velocity of the wind. And so, she watched in horror as the wind blew out her candles.

Lucky for us, one of our guests came up with a lighter. Hooray.

Yes, that’s a stork on her cake. She picked it out, despite my best attempts to persuade her to choose a princess on her cake. She thought this was a duck and a duck was just what she wanted. She is five and she knows her mind.

Sunday, September 2:

We entered church and half a dozen people said with great enthusiasm: “Happy birthday, Grace!” And she looked puzzled because I had neglected to explain that we were celebrating her birthday a day early. So, during a quiet moment, I explained that her Real Birthday was on Sunday but that her party was on Saturday. She accepted this explanation. And then we took a bunch of pictures in the fellowship hall while my husband preached in the sanctuary.

That’s her new dolly, Emma, and her new kitty that purrs.

I cannot believe that five whole years have passed since I gave birth in my bedroom to this long-fingered and long-toed baby. I cannot believe that she’s so much like me and I’m not sure whether to be amused or alarmed. (My husband finds it hilarious to watch me dealing with my Mini-Me because his Mini-Me, our 9-year old, is such an easy, delightful, sweet child and my Mini-Me is sassy and talkative and did I mention SASSY? And the talking? The never-ending TALKING PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!? I am not that talkative, though I might admit to a wee bit of sassiness.)

Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah. I have a five-year old now. For the first time in fourteen years, all of our children are five or older.

A funny thing. On the way home from the pool (she and I went alone), she insisted that she wanted to walk home. WALK HOME! I said, “No, it’s too far!” which is true. She went on and on about walking home and tried to wheel and deal: “Okay, fine, next time, tomorrow, I’m walking home!” I laughed to myself because when I was about four years old, I spoke from the backseat of our car. “I want to walk!” I told my dad. He totally called my bluff and stopped the car along a city street in Tacoma and told me to get out and walk. So I did. I began to walk down the street, unconcerned about being alone, unaware of the danger of a darkened city and then he pulled the car up alongside of me and said, “GET BACK IN THE CAR!”

Monday, September 3:

Labor Day. Sleeping in . . . how much do I love having children who are old enough to let me sleep in? My husband took the kids to the pool for a couple of hours and I shopped the Value Village fifty-percent off sale. I saw a movie. Oh! And my son? The easy-as-pie 9-year old? He spent the whole weekend at Hood Canal with his best friend . . . his entire report to me was this: “Oh yeah, we had fun. We could bullheads with a net! About eight of them! And then we let them go!”

Oh wait! I remember one more thing! At about 8 p.m., I went outside to collect an errant water bottle and noticed how still the air was. I thought it was an ideal time to spray the weeds and grasses in the back yard with RoundUp. And that, my friends, is how I single-handedly brought about the largest rainfall on record for that day in history. Oh yes, and not just rain, but thunder and lightning. (You’re welcome, Pacific Northwest. I will try to use my power for good.)

Tuesday, September 4:

Back to school, except for the teenagers who sleep like hibernating bears. I appreciate the quiet mornings, perhaps because they argue so endlessly when they are awake. (Including just now, while I type this . . . I responded to their argument by unplugging the cable that connects their computer to the Internet. That was quite effective in getting their attention. Now one of them lingers behind me, clearly wanting to say something . . . wait. I’ll ask. “What do you want?” “Well, two things. One, I heard something. Two, I’d like to plug the Internet back in so I can get that thing unlocked and get you to put in the password because tomorrow you’ll be busy with all those kids . . . ” HA HA! I didn’t even say “yes” but he plugged it back in . . . and I let him because he wants the password to the local Christian radio station’s website.)

Oh kids. What fun.

I put in the password and overhead them saying, “Okay, I’ll forgive you but only a hundred and fifty-two times.”

“Actually, in the Bible, it’s seventy times seven.”

Even about this, they must argue. It’s in the Teenage Handbook of Behavior To Drive Your Mother Nuts.

Well, so, we’re caught up. I had imagined I’d opine about giving birth, about my dad’s birthday (he would have been sixty-five on Saturday if he hadn’t died of melanoma when he was forty-seven), about the end of summer and the passing of time, but . . . no. Time swept me along and I failed to narrate my way through the days and now they’re gone.

And so it goes.

School starts Thursday. And my 9-year old will be going, but alas, my almost 5-year old will not and neither will my 14-year old twins. High school at the virtual academy (not to be confused with pretend academy) starts on September 17. (SEPTEMBER 17?!) My soon-to-be 5-year old misses the cut-off date for kindergarten by a day–never-mind that she is emotionally unprepared for kindergarten as separation from me still troubles her–and she’s going to participate in a preschool-like thing but not until the middle of September or later.

And this brings me to admit that I wish I were one of those mothers who gets to ship off the kids to school each day and then Have Some Time. I want to have some time! I want to have five or six hours that I divide into little segments devoted to work and play. But no! I’m not one of those mothers! I am NEVER ALONE and IT’S KILLING ME, one tiny bone in my ear at a time. (They shatter, you see, from the constant drone of noise in my house. Stress fractures of the teeny ear bones, a little known hazard of stay-at-home mothering.)

Well, okay, not never. My husband sends me out of the house on Saturdays, unless other things interfere. And so last Saturday I left at noon and returned at 6 p.m. but it’s not the same as sending the kids to school every day. That’s the life I thought I would have when I envisioned myself as a mother. My own mother had a small circle of friends. They had a moms-only secret life when we were at school. I’d come home to find remnants of a Crafts Day spread out in the family room or maybe a stack of coffee mugs and crumbs on a pretty plate.

My mother had friends and she had time to see them during the day while we went to school.

I want friends and time to see them during the day while my kids are in school.

But my teenagers aren’t going to go back to school, public or otherwise. School-at-home suits their needs and I do think it’s the best option open to us. So, it’s not like I’d choose any differently, even though the personal cost to me is great. This is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

One day my house will empty out and I’ll run errands by myself during daylight hours. And, if my current behavior is any indicator of the future, I’ll probably be complaining then, too.

* * *

Click here and make me happy. (That’s my other blog, you know, the one that pays me more money the more readers I have.)

I quit. I quit because I am unqualified. I took this job when it involved nothing more than cuddling babies, changing diapers and offering the appropriate amount of formula per day. I wasn’t required to make conversation, enforce rules or deal with teenage lapses in judgment.

I was good back then. I could blink awake at the first whimper of a baby and rush in silence to a room, cradling a baby by the glow of the nightlight, shushing him back to sleep even when my arms turned into limbs of stiff pain. I could distract a crawler from a ledge, shuffle a schedule to accommodate naps, sit on the floor for hours at a time, clacking blocks together and reading board books.

Now, I am the Queen of Overreaction. For instance, today, as I drove my teenagers to their friend’s house, they asked me, “Can we go to youth group with him?” And I said, “Are you kidding me? You’re asking now, on the way?” And he said, “I asked yesterday.” But here’s the thing, the match that lit the flame of my annoyance. HE DID NOT ASK ME.

He does this with alarming frequency. He says, “I told you,” or “I asked you,” but he doesn’t. Perhaps he breathes the words into the air, but he does not make sure that his words land in my ears so that I hear and understand and respond. Does he not realize my brain is like a colander and people are continually dumping stuff into it? The important stuff sifts through and sinks in, but the big chunks, the rocks and noise and blabbering just filter right out.

I said, with indignance, “YOU DID NOT ASK ME!” And he made the mistake of insisting that he did. In essence, he insinuated that I was lying or mistaken.

So, I yelled at him . . . you may have seen me in that blue van, shouting into the rear-view mirror.

I hate myself when I overreact. Even when I’m right.

Tonight, all is well and then the phone rings and it’s someone who loaned us something for our trip. We returned the something, but without the power cord. Uh, duh. So, I ask my boys about the cord and they dance around the information I need. They avoid telling me. They blame each other. They deny knowledge of said power cord. They were the only ones who used the cord and they emptied the van of their belongings when we unpacked it.

However, apparently the power cord vaporized into thin air because they were baffled by what might have happened. So, I’m asking questions like, “Do you remember unplugging it from the van?” and “Did you pack it into your backpack?” But here’s the main problem at this point. While I am interrogating one of them, I call him into his room which is filthier than a homeless person’s cardboard box (no offense to homeless people). I am sifting through video game boxes and sticky glasses and find a broken mug, but no cord. I am shooting questions into the air like bullets and this kid next to me, my son, is giving me the old, “YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!” accusation, which is probably true. I don’t need to listen because I already know what he is going to say. And also, I’m rude and disrepectful and have I mentioned, unqualified for this job?

I hate myself when I behave worse than my kids.

The kids never did answer my questions, although he did finally admit that he knew they lost the cord, but they didn’t offer that information to me. HELLO? I am infuriated at this irresponsible shirking of responsibility, this withholding of important information, this teenageness.

I found the power cord on the kitchen counter.

I overreact. I know I do. I am at an elevated level of pissed off-ness just by walking into their disgusting pig-sty of a room. I blast like a rocket into fury instead of giving them the benefit of the doubt or gathering information without freaking out. I suck.

I simply must stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT! Get a grip before I cause them permanent, irreversible destruction. What I want to know is this, though. If nothing I have said to them to this point, fourteen years of parenting hasn’t made a dent in their behavior (TURN OFF THE LIGHT! STOP FIGHTING! PLEASE QUIT LEAVING EMPTY MILK CARTONS IN THE FRIDGE!) then why do I think that I can affect them negatively? My positive influence hasn’t had any effect at all.

I don’t want to be one of those screaming moms that kids plot to get away from. I don’t want to be a bitter old biddy that no one can stand sitting next to in church. I don’t want my kids to hate me.

(Will they ever stop driving me crazy? Can I stop acting like a lunatic? I want a do-over.)

Really, I quit. I can’t do this. Hire someone else with qualifications.