I know what you guys are thinking: toddlers. The terrible twos. Potty training. Defiance. Putting scrambled eggs in the VCR. Oh, I wish your troubles disappear after that, but I’d be blowing smoke. Eighteen, that magical age when our kids are adults but have year to grow a brain and think that we don’t have one. They slip into this psychotic delusion that they can do what they want because of their adult status: smoke, stay out late on school nights, go off on road trips, neglect their chores, etc. What’s a parent to do beside pull out their hair and contemplate shoving them into the nearest recycling bin? Got just the answer for them. The old adage our parents used on us that we, the age of permissive, democratic parenting, cringe at. To get to the point, as long as their being sheltered, fed and clothed, they have to follow your rules. If they balk, let them go to school on roller skates to school. Better yet, let them pay for their own education. Throw their dirty laundry on the front porch so they can wash them in the nearest river when they’re finished loitering for hours at the nearest Starbucks. Make them pay for room and board or nail an eviction notice on their bedroom door. GET A FRIGGING JOB AND MOVE OUT! The real world is chock full of rules. That’s reality. Whether it’s the workplace, relationships, or laws, we’re all governed by rules, fair or not. The freedom of adulthood comes with a price. That said, you gotta tell your newly psychotic 10 year olds that if it’s too hot, get the hell out of the kitchen. See how that works, but don’t let them know who told you or I’ll haunt you forever. Really.

Ever wonder why kids grow up thinking they’re the center of the Universe and you are just one of the background props meant to spring into action at their beck and call? Well you ain’t alone people. I mean, sure, my kids say their pleases and thank-yous, but should that be all I should expect? Am I the eternal, loony optimists that wants them to occasionally ask me how my day went, offer to bring me an ice cold tea, massage my feet and feed me grapes? Okay, scratch the last too, but really! So I’m trying a little experiment to make them more aware of how they treat others. Sorta hoping they become more other-directed. I’m hanging a big-ass piece of butcher paper on one of the doors. Then I’m assigning a colored marker to each kid. (They don’t get to choose because, even as teenagers, they’ll do a throw-down for their favorite color.) Then, whenever they pay a compliment, make a nice offer, or do something thoughtful to another family member, they write it on the paper with their marker. Oh, and they can’t do the same thing to the same person each time, otherwise I’ll be asked how my day went thirteen thousand times a day. And it has to be a mix of words and actions. It’ll be clear at the family meetings whose color is sparse and whose is not. This way, they’ll be more aware of how they treat others and see that, when they do, their lives are better for it. Not to mention the promise of some reward for the family when the butcher paper is full. Hmm, maybe I should set a font size limit too??

Please tell me it’s not just my kids who do these things. Why the hell do they cut open packages and leave the package tops in the drawer with the scissors? Why do they fail to load their dirty dishes in the sink, thinking some obsessive compulsive dish fairy is going to swoop down and do that job for them? And that anal little fairy is getting pissed because there have been a flurry of oatmeal encrusted bowls which require him/her to bring out his magical jack hammer. Why do they take their stinky sneakers off in the middle of the foyer or den when they come home from school rather than put them away where they belong? Don’t they understand kharma? They could trip over those shoes, fracture both tibias in 37 different places so that they don’t need shoes in the first place. Why do they leave the milk out instead of putting it back in the fridge? They never do that with soft drinks and gatorade. Why do kids (and husbands) use the “soaking technique” when it’s their turn to wash the dinner dishes? Don’t they know how transparent they are? It doesn’t take a genius to see this ploy as a desperate hope or a game of chicken which will lead to (who else) me doing them at 11:30 at night. (Actually, that would be me in a perfect world, but June Cleaver I ain’t. They can soak until the designs wear off or the cows come home, which ever comes first.) Placate my frustration. Send me your own personal peeves.

Well, we have a couple of new family members in our household. (We have such a huge deficit in dander, droppings, and drool.) Lukas solved all this when he bought two guinea pigs with his graduation money. His evil plan is to breed them and sell the offspring. When the pet store lady warned him that breeding guinea pigs is very tricky and that you have to know what you’re doing, Lukas replied with eyes the size of cup saucers, “You mean they don’t know how to do it themselves?” Anyway, they’re cute and cuddly, but they make freaky alien like sounds. Plus the “D D D” titer is up to snuff.
Big news: Michelle is engaged….again!! This time it might be for real. Shane is really nice, has a job, and has a right to live with his mom since he’s just 18. They can’t get married until Michelle has a career and her own health insurance, but I think they might just tough it out! Michelle Watts. Hmmm, has a nice ring!

Poor little Annika, my youngest, made the mistake of going through her photo album last night while she was in bed. These are photos she’s taken with a variety of cheap cameras that have come and gone since she was old enough to hold them reasonably steady. Sure, many of the photos are of things like cabinet handles, my butt, doorknobs and other things viewed from her two foot high perspective. But several are of our dogs in varying degrees of focus. Actually, “dog parts” would be more appropriate because none included an entire dog. We’re talking a nose here, a paw there. She did find a nearly whole one of Zoe, though, and the barely healed wounds of her recent euthanasia tore open and bled again. She comes to me with the photo clutched tightly to her chest, tears streaming down her face. If only she could hug her again. if only she had played with her more. She slept cuddled up with me and I suggested she place Zoe’s picture under the pillow so she could dream of happy times with her. But she gave me that “are you insane, woman?” look and said she was afraid Zoe would smother. After a while, she went to her own bed with a slightly damp Zoe in tow. This morning, she took that same picture with her to school, tucked into her binder somewhere between math and language arts. Big hearts break easily.
On the lighter side, I was talking to my eldest, Kristina, telling her how fabulous the biscuits and gravy were at Cliff’s Restaurant. She shook her head in disgust and said she could never eat there again after seeing me throw up in my breakfast there a few months back. She had picked me up from my colonoscopy and my stomach had not yet recovered from the anesthesia, I guess. Annika looked at me with saucer-size eyes and asked, “Anesthesia! You mean you couldn’t remember anything about your life!?”