And again ... and again ...

This morning, I asked for a do-over.

This morning, I was not patient with my children. I snapped when I should have sympathized. I hollered when I could have helped. I leapt when I should have looked.

Then I came home and spent an hour or so beating myself up about it, worrying that the state of my health is permanently damaging my children's.

I told the Universe that I would like those few hours back, please. If it wasn't too much to ask.

Instead she smiled wisely (I imagine) and sent me to a wonderful blog called Mama Om, where I caught a glimpse of the mother I would like to be. The one I know I can be. The one I am, sometimes, on my very best days.

Like all of my favorite teachers, Stacy readily admits she's not perfect. And thank god for that. If she were perfect, it would just discourage me further, rather than inspire me to try harder. But in her imperfection--which is just like my own imperfection, like all of our imperfections--she has moments of brilliance. And she is kind enough to write about them.

By some miracle, I was able to open my heart this morning and allow myself to be inspired by those moments. I walked away from my computer, meditated, wrote in my journal, and resolved to try again.

I don't get a do-over. But I can start over. And I will, as many times as it takes.

Gifted

A few months ago, I asked to have Sweetpea tested for the district's "Highly Capable" program. The more I read about our district's approach to gifted education, the more I could see her thriving in one of their classrooms.

So we did what we could. We filled out the paperwork. We made sure she got enough sleep and ate a good breakfast on test days. We waited for the letter announcing the district's decision. We may or may not have met the mailman (purely by chance) while walking the dog, spelled our last name for him, and offered to 'take a quick peek' through his bag ourselves just to be sure he hadn't missed anything. We may or may not have been asked to stay more than 50 yards away from the mailman in the future.

Yesterday, the scores finally arrived.

My investment in the results was, like most things, complicated. I thought the program would be a good fit for Sweetpea on several levels: the emphasis on allowing kids to direct their own learning, teachers accustomed to dealing with intense and quirky kids, the chance for Sweetpea to interact with more of her peers.

I know part of me also thought that all of Sweetpea's other challenges would be so much easier to take, if only some outside authority would quantify and -- yes -- label her exceptional strengths, in addition to her challenges.

My ego simply wanted my daughter to follow in my footsteps. Being "smart" was always such a big part of who I believed I was. Even now, knowing that my identification with being "smart" was often at the expense of other, equally important traits, the less enlightened part of me still wants that for Sweetpea, too.

If her scores had topped the charts, that part would have felt validated. My kid is brilliant -- see? I am OK. If they had just missed the mark, I have to admit I would have felt disappointed.

As it turns out (I know, the suspense is killing you, right?), some of her scores were as I'd expected, well above average. Others were not. A fire alarm sounded at some point during the testing, and the person who administered the test noted Sweetpea had been "distracted and anxious" throughout the process. Because of the SPD-related challenges, and because the scores correlated neither with one another nor with her classroom performance, the district decided to test her again in a completely different environment.

Regardless, I was surprised to find that in looking at the scores I felt ... nothing. I didn't despair over the lower numbers. I wasn't even tempted to chest-bump the mailman over the high ones. They were just numbers. My experience of my daughter is so much more vast and complicated than any numbers can show.

Next time around, under more suitable testing conditions, the numbers might provide more insight into my daughter's current mastery of second-grade concepts. They might predict with more accuracy her ability to succeed in one of the district's gifted classrooms. Regardless, these numbers don't get the final say about my daughter. They're just one more piece of her incredibly complex picture.

High or low, I won't let them define her. Or me.

If it's a penny for your thoughts, how much for 5 minutes of silence?

I love my son. I do, you guys. He is funny and charming and asks great questions and makes these amazing observations that let you see things in new ways and make you wonder about things you've never wondered about before and ohmygodtheboywillnotshutup!

Yet another reason I'm glad the kids look like us. Because otherwise I'd be staring down the barrel of some tough questions about whether he and my daughter really have the same parents.

When I drive Sweetpea somewhere, she sits in the very back of the van and thinks about things, or reads, or talks to her imaginary friends, or sings along with the radio. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly what she's doing most of the time. But what she does not do is require any interaction whatsoever with me. In fact, any attempt on my part to initiate conversation will likely be ignored.

I used to find that kind of annoying. I remember thinking, "Gee, I wish I had a child who would tell me what she was thinking." Oh, the universe and its little jokes.

Because a car ride with Sprout? Let me put it this way: You know how in most churches you can pretty much zone out during the service if you want to? But then you go to a Catholic church and they keep testing to make sure you're really paying attention? It's kind of like that.

Only it's just you and the priest in a car, and you're working out the ending to the poem you just wrote, or you're trying to have a complete thought from beginning to end, or maybe even just listening to a song you love, and meanwhile the tiny priest in the backseat is saying maythelordbewithyou maythelordbewithyou MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU until you realize he's waiting for a response of some kind from you and just when you start to answer "And also with --" he asks you how McDonald's cooks hamburgers so fast.

And while you're thinking about how to answer that, he's saying, "Guess what, Mommy!"

"hmmmmmmm ...?"

"I know how to spell 'space.'"

"Oh, yeah?" (Still thinking about the hamburger question.)

"S - P - S"

"OK, well that's really close, but it's actually ..."

"You know what, Mommy?"

"... S - P - A ..."

"Heyyouknowwhatmommy?"

"Huh? Oh. What?"

"I saw those things yesterday? Those things that you control with your body?"

"The ... you control with your ...?"

"Those things that you control with your body, Mommy! That we saw on TV? The boys at gymnastics had them? Can I get those, Mommy?"

(Starting to wonder what he controls other things with:) "Well, maybe on your ..."

And then he asks you whether a lizard is a turtle's cousin or just his stepbrother. Or wants you to look at how his fingers are two different colors (Just look in your mirror, Mommy!). Or kindly offers to count to 199 for you. Again.

Then you come home, and your husband asks you a simple question like how your day was or why you're drooling like that or where all the Tequila went and you'd like to answer him, you would, but the last available cell in your brain is working on the family tree of lizards, so instead you just rock back and forth, muttering something about turning the downstairs bathroom into a sensory deprivation chamber.

Yeah. It's like that.

Carpool, anyone?

Why my child will never save the planet ...

Me: "Hurry up, Sweetpea! I have a million things to do. I swear you walk slower when you know I'm in a rush."

Sweetpea (visibly slowing down further): "I'm enjoying nature, Mommy."

Me: "Great. Enjoy nature faster."

Being the "best"

As I was driving her to piano this week, Sweetpea suddenly cocked her head to the side and examined me with uncharacteristic scrutiny.

"Mommy, you're weird," she said. As if the thought had just occurred to her.

Within the last 10 minutes, she had also asked me to please stop pointing out the person dressed as the Statue of Liberty (before today, one of her favorite obsessions) and please stop singing along with Jason Mraz (yeah ... not gonna happen, kiddo).

In response, I made an appropriately parental, disapproving face in the rear-view mirror. OK, maybe I stuck my tongue out at her. Whatever. Stop judging -- you're missing the point.

The point is, my daughter called me "weird." And although I was working hard not to show it, I was secretly a little pleased.

Sweetpea is 8 years old, and most days she still tells me I'm her best friend. (You know, when she doesn't hate me and want to move in with the neighbors.) As much as I love it, I know our days as best friends are numbered. At least, I hope they are.

For years her teachers told me not to worry, that it was "normal" Sweetpea didn't have a best friend her own age. Even as I watched other kids pairing up, we all put faith in the fact that Sweetpea played easily with anyone and everyone. Sunny and irrepressible on a good day, she attracted plenty of friends, if not a "best friend."

But painful as it is to admit, peer relationships seem to be getting harder, not easier for her. Now in second grade, her invitations to play dates and birthday parties seem unusually few and far between.

Naturally, I blame myself. When I was working, it wasn't always possible to take the time to get to know other moms. Casual chit-chat outside the classroom or at holiday parties isn't my strong suit. But by now, even I have to admit it's probably not all my fault.

Truth is, Sweetpea doesn't always seem interested in friendships -- she's just as content to do her own thing, act out her own invented stories. I do arrange play dates, when she shows an interest, but reciprocal invitations don't always follow. Or they don't come more than once. I suspect that school-age peers are less willing than preschoolers to overlook behavior they don't understand, and every year it may get a little harder.

This year Sweetpea does seem more tuned in to social interactions. It's often a painful awareness, as she sees her friendships falling short. But a little pain might be necessary to motivate changes that will help her form more meaningful friendships.

Just like it's necessary for her to start thinking I'm a little "weird."

I'm hopeful this all means she's becoming a little less attached to my hip, and a little more identified with her peers. Believe me when I say I'm not kidding myself. I know this is just the first, tiny step in a long process, one that will often be miserable for one or both of us. But I'm willing to start letting her go.

So when we got to her piano teacher's house the other day, I said, "Do you still want me to walk you to the door? You know, since I'm so 'weird' and all?"

Sweetpea rolled her eyes. "Of course! You're not a lot weird, Mommy. You're just a little weird. You're weird like you're my best mom."

I know "best friend" is a role I can't play for much longer. But "best mom"? That one I can live with.

Motherhood: A Tragedy in Three Acts

I have three stories to tell you, and I can't decide which to post first. I guess I'll go with Door #2. (Wait for it ... that turn of phrase will take on additional significance in a minute, but not in a good way.)

Act 1: Morning

Scene: Sprout's preschool

While helping Sprout get changed for swimming day, Our Hero discovers evidence of some less-than-optimal personal hygiene in his underwear. Because she is unbelievably lame and has once again neglected to leave a full set of clean, labeled clothing in his cubby, (even though she is not currently working for money and this type of thing is, arguably, her only real responsibility), she humbly borrows a pair from school. She then wraps the offending undergarment in several opaque plastic grocery bags, stuffs them in her purse, and promptly forgets this ever happened.

Act 2: Afternoon

Scene: Kitchen

Hero (to self): WTF? What is this clump of empty grocery bags doing in my purse?

Hero stuffs the grocery bags in a cupboard under the kitchen island, also known as the Island of Lost Tupperware, and quickly slams the door to avoid avalanche of mismatched tubs and lids. And promptly forgets this ever happened.

Act 3: Evening

Scene: Laundry room

Emptying Sprout's backpack and starting laundry prompts Our Hero to recover memory of Act 1.

All-too-familiar sinking feeling accompanies recovered memory of Act 2.

The End.

And the worst part, you guys? I cannot find them. So the other posts will have to wait, because right now I have to go burn down my kitchen.

But for a minute there, I was flying.

This morning, like most mornings, found N___ complaining because his sister had hijacked one of his toys. "Grandma gave me that Barbie doll to use, and A___ won't give it back!" he whined.

My first reaction, of course, was to help. And by "help," I mean roll my eyes in irritation and bellow at them to "Just work it out for chrissake -- Mommy hasn't finished her coffee yet!" But just then, what he said sank in. I'm sorry ... did you just say ... doll?

Hallelujah. FINALLY, my long-held principles about raising boys and girls were bearing fruit.

I grew up in the '70s, with liberal parents. "Free to Be ... You and Me" was pretty much the gospel of my childhood. I took it on faith that parents are people, it's all right to cry, and -- preach it, Alan Alda -- William gets a doll.

But I have had fewer opportunities than I had hoped to put my enlightened views into practice with my own children. Before A___ was born, I firmly rejected gender stereotypes. I painted her room yellow; her comforter was blue. "Girls do not have to wear pink!" I naively declared.

Except ... then I told the world she was a girl. And for the next three years, until her brother was born, every item that entered my house was pink. Because every item for girls ... in every store? Pink. When N___ was born, I had an equally difficult time finding anything for him to wear that did not seem to limit his future career choices to race car driver, construction worker, or professional athelete.

Fine, I thought. I can bend on the clothing thing. But this doesn't have to affect their behavior. Surely their dad and I will treat them the same, so there won't be any difference in how they play.

With each of my kids, I had a couple of pretty good years. Baby toys are baby toys, for the most part. Exersaucers are gender-neutral. For a while, even when N___ was old enough to express a preference, his older sister's influence held sway. He played hairdresser. He wore his sister's dress-up clothes. And I ... um ... gloated.

Then, boy met world. He went to school, where his friends watched movies we didn't let him watch, played with toys we didn't let him play with, or had older brothers who did those things. In TV commercials, he watched boys playing with the toys that boys are "supposed" to want to play with. Of course I tried to counteract these messages. But bit by bit, gun by gun, superhero by superhero, I felt I was losing him to a world I did not understand and where I could not follow.

Until this morning. Because my son was heartbroken over a DOLL, people! And I'm pretty sure I broke a land-speed record getting over there to step in and make sure he got that thing back. "You go ahead and take that Barbie to your room to play, son," I said, my voice cracking with pride.

That "whoop-whoop" sound you heard? That was me, raising the self-righteous roof. Here it was, finally, living proof that I had single-handedly (OK, maybe with a little help from my husband) fought off the influence of our misogynistic, homophobic culture. Superhero? I'll show you a superhero! I was on Cloud 9.

And then ... that thump you heard? Also me. Firmly reconnecting with Earth a few minutes later, when N___ came back into the room holding a half-undressed Barbie and exclaiming, "Look, Mommy! Boobies!"

Time to dust off that "Free to Be ..." DVD we picked up a few years back. It's movie night, kids.

You may now congratulate her on a job well done.

As usual, A__ is two steps ahead of me. She greeted me shortly after waking up yesterday morning with this:

Mommy! Mommy! Guess what?!

What's up, kiddo?

I've earned my reward!

You've earned your ... ?

Come see!

Still half-asleep, I follow her back to her room, where my attention is directed to a piece of paper she has taped up behind her door. At the top, in crayon, it reads, "Responsibility Chart." Chores are listed down the left margin, with boxes for the days of the week to the right of each. I have never seen this chart before.

Most of the boxes are empty, but "Put my clothes away" is checked off for each day last week. At the bottom of the chart, it clearly states that when one job is complete, she is to receive a reward.

See? Case closed.

Yes, I see. What are you giving yourself for a reward?

No, you are, silly! We're going to Target to buy me a toy!



And so I apologize in advance to all of her future employers. I can see it now ...

Hey, boss! Come see! I've earned my bonus!

Well, you've only worked here a week, and bonuses aren't given until you've been ...

But look! I've done everything on the chart I made. All week! Isn't this great?!

Actually, we do performance evaluations in ...

Look at the chart!

I'm afraid there's been ...

Chart!

----. Right. I'll go get my checkbook.

Where does he get this shit?

My son has a new love. Before you go thinking that's adorable and everything, let me add that he is in love with the phrase, "Damn it!"

It used to be that he would pull this out only at home, but yesterday afternoon when I picked him up from daycare he yelled it at me. YELLED. It. At. Me. At daycare. Where, coincidentally, his teachers work. Teachers who, in my fantasy life, still think I'm a reasonably good mother.

Naturally, I responded by acting shocked, as if I'd never heard him do that before. Because if I had, obviously I would have immediately done something so powerful and awe-inspiring as to put an end to that behavior. Immediately. Obviously.

And now I have to think of something powerful and awe-inspiring that will put an end to this behavior. Because so far? Nothing I've tried has worked.

I'll tell you one thing we have not tried. This advice, from a book called Discipline Without Shouting or Spanking (written, as far as I can tell, by someone who has never met an actual child): "Tell him to practice saying the offending statement for one minute for each year of age to make the phrase lose its power."

First of all, really? If I could control what does and does not come out of my kid's mouth in the slightest, would I have this problem in the first place?

And second, I know for a fact this does not work. I know because we tried it on my daughter a few years ago.

(Are you done laughing yet? No? I'll wait.)

From this little experiment, we all learned a valuable lesson. The only thing that disturbs parents more than hearing their four-year-old curse is hearing their four-year-old curse for four minutes straight. And that is not information you want falling into the wrong hands. Trust me on this. (Hint: You lose.)

Also high on my list of ways not to get your child to stop swearing: Giving a five-minute time-out every time he says the word. By the time he gets to the top of the stairs on his way to the first time-out, he will have accumulated enough additional time-outs to last until his next birthday. Eventually, you will get tired of serving him meals in his room. Or someone at school will notice he's missing. (You lose again!)

Hey -- I know! Maybe I'll just go find the person who taught him this in the first place, and make her deal with it.

Oh. Damn.

Yes, I did just say this out loud.

"You're going to have to throw up a lot more than that, if you think you're staying home from school tomorrow."

That's all. Just illustrating why, as a general rule, things I say to my kids should not be shared out of context.

In my defense, I checked for fever first. And cabbage was involved.

School is in session. Always.

Today I feel moody and irritable. And by "today," I mean "often." And by "often," I mean "pretty much all winter."

Before I had kids, I coped with this seasonal moodiness by taking to my bed when it hit the hardest. I would get up and go to work, but otherwise I'd curl up with a pint of Ben & Jerry's, avoid any unnecessary social interaction, and wait for it to pass.

Now that I have kids, I don't have that luxury (such as it was). So instead I ... take natural supplements. Take not-so-natural supplements. Exercise. Rest. Eat well. Eat chocolate. Cancel social engagements. Get up and go to social engagements I'd rather cancel. Etc. That sounds random, perhaps, but it's actually a fairly scientific system derived from years of personal trial-and-error, not to mention the input of more than a few professionals of various disciplines. Often, it works.

But not always. And while you are most likely reading this from a safe distance, my family gets the privilege of experiencing my ups and downs first-hand.

My daughter is getting old enough to understand that it's not always her. Sometimes it's me. She will, on occasion, suggest that I go put on my Disney Grumpy sweatshirt. (Or, as we in this house call it, "fair warning.") On a particularly rough morning last week, she actually said: "It probably would have been a good idea to count to five before that last sentence came out of your mouth." And she was right.

Which made me think, again, wouldn't it be great if my kids learned only from what I say, and not what I do? Because it turns out they are always watching and listening, even when I think they're not. And especially when I wish they weren't.

Here are some of the lessons I fear my kids are learning from me:

Sometimes, it only takes a little nudge to push someone over the edge. (Wheeeeeeeee!)

You don't have to listen the first time, because the other person will say it again. And if it's important, she'll say it louder.

Some of the words mommy says at home do not go over well at school.

Coffee is magic.

Just because someone exercises and eats well while you're watching, doesn't mean there will be any pie left when you wake up in the morning.

Sometimes the person who loves you most lets you down, then puts herself in a time-out, and you are the only one around who can pick you back up.

On the other hand, if I were the perfect mother I sometimes wish I could be, my kids would miss out on some other important lessons. Things that I have probably said a million times, but that are so much more powerful when they are modeled. Things like:

Crying is OK.

Time-outs aren't just for kids.

When you screw up, you say you're sorry (but don't expect it to fix everything).

You get out of bed and do your best every day, no matter what.

My kids and I have a little running joke. When one of them is recounting a mistake they made, or worrying about their performance in some activity or other, I ask: "Do you have to be perfect?"

"No!" they say.

"Is anybody perfect?"

"No! Nobody's perfect," my angels respond.

"But wait! Mommy's perfect, right?"

At this, they dissolve into giggles. Oh, the hilarity that ensues!

Maybe that's the best lesson of all.

Playing favorites

The other day a friend asked about my kids. After listening to at least 15 minutes of stories about the latest school issues and behavior challenges, she asked, "Don't you have a son, as well?"

Ouch. It's not the first time this has happened, either. Parents, co-workers, friends ... all have asked pointedly at some time or another, "And how's N___?"

To some degree, I can laugh it off (if a tad uncomfortably) with a crack about second-child syndrome. That's just how it goes, right?

When A___ was a baby, each night after work the three of us would spend a magical hour together snuggling on the bed, reconnecting after the long day apart. I have vivid memories of her giggling between us as we sang "Monkeys on the Bed." Or maybe it's not memories. Maybe it's all the photos I took and lovingly arranged by developmental stage. Or those hours of video catalogued on the shelf.

And then there were the classes! I was a Northern-Virginia-lifetime-overachiever-first-time-mom, after all. Those classes were invented for people like me. Preschool Picassos. Mommy & Me Yoga. Pacis & Pottery. Womb Ballet. Science for Sippy Cups. Thai & Tummy Time. And, of course, Water Babies. (Well, not babies, really. They had to be at least 6 months old. Teaching a baby younger than that to swim would just be ridiculous.)

When N___ was born, things were different. We had a toddler to care for now, in addition to an infant, and our toddler was not the easygoing type who suffered occasional changes in routine, low blood sugar, or loss of sleep in silence. There seemed to be no time for leisurely snuggling. It was as if each night we stepped out of our cars and directly onto a conveyor belt of dinner, baths, and bedtime.

And those Mommy & Me classes? Um, I think N___ watched a few of those from his stroller. While his sister participated in them, I mean. I can't be sure, though. I certainly don't have many pictures ... and the ones I do have are in a box somewhere, waiting to be put into albums that I'm planning to buy and fill just as soon as I get some spare time.

But I have to admit, it's also a personality thing. Difficult though she may be at times, I "get" A___. I get how she learns. I relate to how she plays. I am fascinated and -- yes -- entertained by her complex dramatic scenarios.

It seems I have to work a little harder to find things N___ and I both enjoy doing. After 5 years, for example, I still do not understand why tackling is a form of entertainment. Or grasp the rules of the let's-pick-up-a-random-object-and-pretend-it's-a-gun game. (Some would say I'm overcomplicating that one, but there must be something I'm missing, right?) My attention span for driving miniature die-cast cars in circles is approximately 8.3 seconds. And try as I might, I can't make sense of his precocious attraction to bad guys. (The bad-boy fascination didn't hit me until around age 13.)

Hey -- it's not all my fault, here. When offered the chance, N___ does not seem the least bit enthusiastic about spending a quality hour with me, a few flashcards, and a good phonics workbook. And when his dad signed N___ up for tee-ball and then conveniently took a job that prevented him from attending any of the practices -- where apparently the parents (dads) were expected to help, by doing ridiculous things like explaining how to stand at bat and fielding balls without hitting any 4-year-olds in the head -- well, it's hard to say which of us dreaded practice days more.

And yet, lately I've been wondering if N___ being the yin to A___'s yang is not so much reality as it is convenience. Or habit. Sure, the surface differences are there: A___ walked at 18 months; N___ came out of the womb crawling. A___ couldn't wait to learn letters and words, while N is more interested in creating with Legos. A___ commands the spotlight; N___ seems content to play a supporting role.

But I also realize that the differences are at least in part a reflection of my own selective attention. It's been easy to find myself more excited about whatever A___ is going through at the moment, because we're going through it all for the first time together. N___ may be the second in our family to hit those milestones, but he's hitting them in his own incredible way. His unique journey also warrants -- and rewards -- my attention.

In other words, his dramatic scenarios may be filled with characters I've never heard of, like Silver Surfer and Wolverine, but it turns out they are every bit as complex and entertaining as A___'s princess tales. And what that boy can build with Legos? Amazing!

I just have to remember to show up, slow down, and really pay attention. To who he is -- not who I thought he'd be, or how I want him to be, or all the ways he is (or is not) different from his sister.

So excuse me for a bit while I put down the phonics workbook, grab a Hot Wheels car or two, and spend some more time playing with my son. Next time you ask, I hope I'll have a better answer to the question: "How's N___?"

Sometimes, you get what you need

Yesterday, in addition to calling me lazy for asking her to clean her room, A___ declared that I treat her like a servant.

A number of possible responses ran through my mind, including:

-- That's it! All versions of 'Cinderella' are banned from the house FOREVER.
-- I don't think the word 'servant' means what you think it means.
-- Pull up a chair, kiddo. Now seems like a perfect time for that long lecture I've been meaning to give you about orphans, child labor in third-world countries and, speaking of labor, the 18 hours that I spent LAZILY bringing your disrespectful self into this world. WITHOUT an epidural.

Upon further consideration, though, I decided she's right about one thing: It is time for a change. Just not the one she's hoping for.

When my husband and I were both working, I'll admit we didn't always do exactly what was best in raising our children. (Even when we had an inkling of what was actually best, which is a pretty small percentage of the time.)

I'm not saying it's like this in every dual-income family. I know lots of families where both parents work full time, the house is always spotless and organized, the children are unfailingly polite and respectful, PTA meetings are attended, cookies are baked from scratch, and the mother regularly prepares entire meals in which each course reflects a whimsical holiday theme. (OK, I really only know one family like that. And I will find their weakness. I will! But I'm sure your family is doing just fine.)

Us? We were TIRED. A whole lot of the time. When keeping track of two different children's snack days feels more challenging than your college differential equations class on a hangover ... when you're lucky if your kid wears shoes to daycare, let alone having two complete sets of dry, appropriately sized, LABELED clothing in his cubby ... Let's just say it's hard to resist the siren call of the Path of Least Resistance.

Because let's face it. That path is all downhill, people! It's one long, lovely coast down a floral-scented, tree-lined avenue. Which is fantastic ... until you have to backtrack. And unfortunately you always have to backtrack eventually. (Maybe not you, cookie-baking, holiday-theming PTA mom. But the rest of us.)

For example: When your kids are 3 years old, it obviously requires less energy to pick up their toys on any given night than to make them to do it themselves. (If the previous statement does not seem obvious to you, you've clearly never met a 3-year-old. And you might as well stop reading now.)

Nevertheless, there will come a time when you've had enough. They're old enough to pick up their own toys, you'll say with adorably naive enthusiasm! If your kids are anything like mine, they might even go along with you for a day or two, just for the novelty. But sooner or later they will ... let's call it "disagree." And if your kids are anything like mine, they will disagree loudly. While you're staying in a hotel with thin walls and a CPS worker in the next room. Or when your mother-in-law is visiting.

That's when you turn around and face the long, uphill climb back from the Path of Least Resistance. And that path you're headed toward? The one you pretended not to see as you made a break for the easy route? That dark, bumpy, washed-out, uphill-both-ways, avalanche-prone, sorry-excuse-for-a-road? Yeah, that one's called parenting.

So ... despite the fact that we were both working and TIRED (did I mention tired?), my husband and I had up to this point managed many of the basics: dressing, bathing, teeth brushing. Routines had been established! Logical consequences were in place! We were feeling pretty darn good about ourselves, some days, when the stars aligned and no one threw us any curve balls, threw a tantrum, or just plain threw up.

But getting the kids to do chores? Meaning, help out around the house above and beyond taking minimal (and I do mean minimal) care of their own hygiene? Sure, we fully intended to get around to that. Building responsibility, being part of the family, and all that. The whole identifying-age-appropriate-jobs-teaching-new-skills-creating-schedules-and-routines-coming-up-with-fitting-consequences-for-noncompliance-enforcing-consequences-coming-up-with-new-consequences-when-the-old-ones-stop-working thing? Oh, we were all for it. It just wasn't ever the right time.

Yesterday, A___'s indignant response to being asked to pick up HER OWN ROOM appeared on the side of my path like a big, flashing, neon sign that read, "Welcome to the Right Time." This was, after all, part of the reason I left my job. So that I would have more time to keep the family on track. It's a luxury I intend to take full advantage of while I can.

Yes, A___ is about to discover that even with a stay-at-home mom hanging around, "You can't always get what you want." (That yelling you hear? It's coming from our house. It'll die down in a week or two.)

And when I'm done with that, I might just bake some cookies. From scratch! But I'm still not going to the PTA meetings.