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This summer my family and I went on a 14-day Grand Canyon river trip. Not to be too cliched, but it really was the trip of a lifetime. Here’s the thing, though: “trip of a lifetime” could either mean the best experience of your life, or the worst. And that’s exactly how my daughter, Clementine, approached the whole idea of this trip.

As most of you probably know there is a lot of planning that goes into a river trip—even if you go on a commercial trip like we did (official shout out to AzRA: they are the BEST). This meant that even though our trip was in July we needed to start collecting the necessary gear for the trip months ahead of time. Which also meant that Clementine started to try her best to get out of going on the trip months ahead of time as well.

To give her credit, she was clever about it. She didn’t attempt to wear me down through whining (at long last THAT lesson has sunk in), but instead by casually mentioning, when I would least expect it, how much she really didn’t want to go on this trip, and how much better off I would be if instead I took someone who might actually enjoy it. She pointed out how much she dislikes camping, and hiking, and being away from her lap top and espresso. I, in turn, pointed out that the whole point of a family vacation is to spend it with your family. And so she went. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, and not too happily, but she went.

Now, in any other piece of writing I am sure this is the point where I would write about how the Canyon transformed Clementine: how she learned to fall in love with all the hard lines of rock and soft curls of sand, how the cascading notes of the Canyon Wren trickling down the Canyon walls every afternoon became her favorite sound in the whole world, and how at the end of the trip all she could do was speak wistfully about how she couldn’t wait to come back. In any other piece of writing, maybe, but in this one I’m going to write about how happy she was to see the bus that was waiting to pick us up at the take out, and how, as that bus finally began the long ascent that would take us up to Peach Springs, and then home, Clementine stood in the back of that bus and flipped off the Grand Canyon.

With both hands.

Not the most storybook of endings. Although, as far as break ups go, it was pretty epic. And, yeah, even after we got home and she had the chance to shower two weeks’ worth of Colorado River mud out of her hair, they’re still broken up. Which, actually, is okay with me. Sure, it would have been nice if Clementine had fallen in love with the Canyon, but that was never one of my requirements of her for our trip. In fact, the only requirement I ever had was that she not spew her hatred and misery on the other people on our trip, (both the guides and the other passengers), and she met this requirement admirably. She was pleasant, she was helpful, and, on occasion, she was an absolute joy. But she didn’t change her mind about not liking camping, or hiking, or being away from the internet.

She did, however, jump off a few waterfalls, learn the words to a few new songs, and find out that while it may not be optimal, it is possible to step out of your comfort zone every now and again without dire consequences. And while she probably won’t ever admit it, I think she still ended up kind of liking the Canyon.

Just a little bit.

The other morning I received a somewhat unusual text from my son, Clyde. It was unusual both for the time of day I received it (ten o’clock in the morning, right in the middle of second period) and for the subject matter: it was a dirty joke. Well, a moderately dirty joke. It was that old chestnut whose opening line is “She has acute angina,” followed by a vaguely dirty punchline. It’s a pretty old joke, but still: at least I understood it, which isn’t something that usually occurs when Clyde tells me a joke. (This may have something to do with the fact that Clyde spends the majority of his free time reading and talking about Japanese anime, and I don’t.) And so that is why, in an effort to encourage a non-anime type pursuit, I responded in what seemed like the only responsible, supportive way possible: I sent him another dirty joke back in response, this one equally well worn, but with a punch line of “It must be your feet, then.” It was only a few moments before I got another joke back, and that’s when I started to feel uneasy. I didn’t know Clyde even knew how to spell “Consuelo.”

Suddenly I remembered that we had just gotten Clyde a new phone, and that, for some reason, all of the information from both his and my husband’s phone had become blended. Same calendars, same music—same texts. I quickly fired off a text asking who, exactly, I was texting, and sure enough, got back the reply I was dreading: it was my husband.

Now, most people would be relieved to find out that they had been exchanging somewhat salacious texts with their spouse, as opposed to their 12 year old son. And I was (except for the fact that I find bad jokes easier to forgive in a 12 year old than a 46 year old). The problem, however, was that, because of the phones’ freaky mind meld thingy, Clyde would not have received my husband’s opening text—all he would have received from me was a random dirty joke. In the middle of his second period class.

It wasn’t the worst joke in existence—it was certainly no “Aristocrats.” But still, I’m sure when he heard the “ping!” and glanced down to see that he had gotten a text from “Mom” this was not exactly what he might have been expecting. At least I hope it wasn’t the text he had been expecting. In fact, he probably hadn’t been expecting any kind of a text at all. Which means that the notifying “ping!” was probably at full volume. Which, in the silence that can occur in your average seventh grade classroom (despite the student’ best efforts to prevent it), can be pretty damn loud. Loud enough to get caught, at least.

And then, as I started to squirm uncomfortably at the thought, an even worse thought came and settled in the pit of my stomach: what if not only had I just sent Clyde some random dirty joke text, but I had also gotten him in trouble for it? What if he had been caught getting a text in class, and had his phone taken away, and the teacher glanced down to see who was texting him and…

I thought about sending him another text saying “disregard former text,” but what if that was the text that got his attention, encouraging him to scroll back through his texts until he found the one I was trying to get him to “disregard”? And then got him caught.

Yeah, there’s no doubt about it: this year is shaping up to have the most uncomfortable parent teacher conferences ever. And, for me, that’s really saying something.

I once saw an outtake from Jaws where all of the actors in a particular scene showed up with a cigarette between their lips in order to make fun of Roy Scheider for smoking through practically every scene that didn’t involve being underwater. (And, on an aside, how many people remember when actors in movies smoked for some reason other than to show that they were morally bankrupt? Of course, in those days everyone smoked—I remember my pediatrician smoking while giving me a physical. Hey, I’m not saying that it was better back then—just different.) Anyway, back to Jaws: this “smoke attack” was, I believe, an effort to get Roy to tone down his obsessive smoking. Just a bit. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if it worked or not, but still: I certainly remembered it a few years ago when my daughter, Clementine, first discovered the joys of swearing.

It’s not that I have anything against swearing—I appreciate a thoughtful, uniquely offensive collection of epithets as much as the next sailor—but when it came to Clementine and swearing she was, unfortunately, a one-trick (or rather one-word) pony. And what was worse was that she wasn’t even using that one word correctly. I mean, I know that this magnificent word is probably the most versatile swear world in all the wide world of swearing, but even so it isn’t that flexible. Still, the fact that it was clearly her “go to” swear word made it that much easier for us when we finally had enough of it and decided it was time to “out Scheider” her.

“What kind of !@#$ cereal do you !@#$ want for your !@#$ breakfast?” I asked her one morning when she came into the kitchen. “!@#$ or !@#$?”

She blinked at me sleepily. “What?”

“Are you !@# deaf? Your !@#$ mother just asked you what you what you !@#$ wanted for your !@# breakfast. !@#$,” her father said.

That woke her up. “I don’t !@#$ know. I just !@#$ got up. Give me a minute. !@#$.”

I sighed. Well at least it was a start. And, in fact, the intervention eventually did work. Eventually. Although it took more “Scheidering” on our parts than I was actually comfortable delivering, and that’s saying something. But, yeah, by continually outdoing her on the swearing front we took away the shock value of it, which, if I remember correctly, was half the fun of swearing as a teenager. And now that she is seventeen I am happy to report that she swears almost like a normal person—well, normal for my house, anyway. Of course, that means that, just like clockwork, her little brother has taken up the swearing mantle instead.

When it comes to dealing with a younger sibling, some things are definitely easier. On one hand the younger sibling probably already has a good idea of the tactics that do not work. (For example, I learned from my older sister that holding the thermometer against a light bulb and then trying to claim a 107 degree fever was not the way to get to stay home from school.) On the other hand, however, they also learn what does work. And I’m afraid that, in Clyde’s case, he saw exactly how close we were to giving up on the whole “out swearing” tactic. In fact, I think he knows that, in this instance at least, he has a clear shot at winning.

It doesn’t help that—probably due to way too much online gaming—he has a slightly more extensive swearing vocabulary than Clementine did. Still, in the end it always seems to come back to that one word. Which means that, with a little perseverance, we still have a chance to win.

Thank !@#$.

Well, it finally happened. We lost the fork.

This is not a euphemism. This is not like when you are trying to describe how things just went south in a relationship and you say “I don’t know what happened: one day we were so happy, and then, I dunno, somehow we just lost the fork.” No, when I say “we lost the fork,” that is exactly what I mean. We had one fork, and then we lost it. We are now, officially, the “House of Spoons.” Which is ironic, because last summer we lost all of our spoons and became known as the “House of Forks.” I guess that’s what happens when the after school snack of choice goes from being cereal to ramen.

Of course, that explains the “why” of forks vs. spoons. (Forks vs. Spoons. Best gang fight EVER. “When you’re a fork you’re a fork for the rest of your life…”) It doesn’t, however, explain the “how.” As in “How in the hell do these people manage to lose ALL of the silverware? And by “these people,” I mean, of course, my children.

Yes, I’m sure it’s my children. Why? I don’t know, maybe because before they came along I managed to live for years with the same set of silverware? In fact, I didn’t even realize that silverware was something you had to buy more than once in your life. I mean, it’s not like it ever wears out. It’s not like people eat their way through spoons. I have a set of silver that belonged to my great-great grandmother that will, conceivably, still be around for my great-great grandchildren to enjoy. Not a single item shows any sign of “lick fatigue.” (And no, those particular forks are not included in the household fork tally. In fact, I have made sure my children have no idea where that silverware is hidden. Some people might worry about their delinquent offspring selling the heirloom silver for drug money: I worry about them using it to eat take out.)

Speaking of which, I should probably order out more often, if for no other reason than to get the plastic silverware that comes with it. Because right now even a broken spork would get a place of honor at my house.

The thing about all of the lost forks is that I have absolutely no idea where they go. Lost phones, lost homework, lost bus passes—these I can picture easily enough, abandoned on busses and car roofs and bathrooms. And I have seen enough single gloves lying forlornly in the middle of the road to have no doubt where all of the lost gloves go. But forks? I have yet to see a lost fork in a bathroom (thank god), or a bus for that matter. I have seen a few lying in the road (and yeah, I always giggle at the sight of a “fork in the road”), but not nearly enough to make me think that losing them that way is even remotely common. (And no, I don’t know what “that way” entails: I have a hard time imagining a scenario that involves leaving your fork on the top of the car.)

I have tried, over the years, to enforce various “no food outside of the kitchen” rules, but real life always manages to get in the way. When it comes down to a choice between letting them carry their meals to different parts of the house (and beyond) and not eating at all, I tend to go with the former.

At least I do when there are plates and silverware to carry. Something tells me though that this is going to be the winter of eating with out fingers over the sink. And no: that’s not a euphemism either.

The other day my son, Clyde, burst through the front door, panting heavily.

“Hey,” he said, nonchalantly. Well, as nonchalantly as someone can be while they are gasping for breath.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, looking out the front window behind him for the zombie horde that must have been chasing him.

“Nothing,” he replied, walking past me on his way to eat the entire kitchen. “I just thought I’d run home.”

“Why?” I asked, now thoroughly confused.

And then he looked at me like I was the strange one. “Because.”

And that’s when I remembered that I was dealing with an other.

It’s got nothing to do with the generation gap: even when I was Clyde’s age it would have taken at least a zombie horde to get me moving at more than a brisk walk, and who knows how long I would have kept even that up. (Actually, who am I trying to kid? I know exactly how long I would have kept that up: about two minutes. And then I would have turned around and tried to debate my way out of being eaten.)

I also know that it’s not a generational thing because my other child is exactly like me in this regard: she would probably go through a zombie horde if it made it easier for her to get to her car on the other side. Unfortunately, my other child is also out of the country for the semester, leaving me at the mercy of these people who seem to think that sweating isn’t something that only happens after you have had your fourth shot of espresso. And by these people, I mean, of course, men. Or boys. Or whatever: I’m talking about those people who are estrogen-challenged.

I guess I never realized before how balancing it was to have another female in the house, how much the combined weight of our mutual disapproval helped to keep the male hijinks and shenanigans in check. How her disapproval radiating out from behind her closed bedroom door and mine laser-beaming its way out from the kitchen somehow combined into some sort of Ghostbuster-like proton ray to drive the worst aspects of guyville out the door and into the yard where it belonged.

Now, however, I realize that it must have been the only thing keeping my house from going Full Frontal Frat House. Look, I’m not saying that the females of the house are any neater than the males, or any less aggressive, or even any less aggravating. It’s just that I’d much rather find a pile of empty Starbucks cups on the coffee table than empty 2 liter bottles of Mountain Dew Red. Much rather have to tell someone to get off Tumblr and go to bed than tell them it’s time to say goodnight to all their lovely Call of Duty friends for the evening. (Tumblr, at least, does not involve a headset and shouting at people for accidentally shooting you in the face. Although there is probably a gif that gets the same point across.)

The worst part of it is that I know that this is all just a preview for when my daughter leaves for good and I am left with a house full of boys for years and years. What am I going to to when it is just me and the boys? I suppose I could try and fill the house up with some nonhuman females. It’s not ideal, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

And that, my friends, is where crazy cat ladies must come from.

The other day my son, Clyde, burst through the front door, panting heavily.

“Hey,” he said, nonchalantly. Well, as nonchalantly as someone can be while they are gasping for breath.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, looking out the front window behind him for the zombie horde that must have been chasing him.

“Nothing,” he replied, walking past me on his way to eat the entire kitchen. “I just thought I’d run home.”

“Why?” I asked, now thoroughly confused.

And then he looked at me like I was the strange one. “Because.”

And that’s when I remembered that I was dealing with an other.

It’s got nothing to do with the generation gap: even when I was Clyde’s age it would have taken at least a zombie horde to get me moving at more than a brisk walk, and who knows how long I would have kept even that up. (Actually, who am I trying to kid? I know exactly how long I would have kept that up: about two minutes. And then I would have turned around and tried to debate my way out of being eaten.)

I also know that it’s not a generational thing because my other child is exactly like me in this regard: she would probably go through a zombie horde if it made it easier for her to get to her car on the other side. Unfortunately, my other child is also out of the country for the semester, leaving me at the mercy of these people who seem to think that sweating isn’t something that only happens after you have had your fourth shot of espresso. And by these people, I mean, of course, men. Or boys. Or whatever: I’m talking about those people who are estrogen-challenged.

I guess I never realized before how balancing it was to have another female in the house, how much the combined weight of our mutual disapproval helped to keep the male hijinks and shenanigans in check. How her disapproval radiating out from behind her closed bedroom door and mine laser-beaming its way out from the kitchen somehow combined into some sort of Ghostbuster-like proton ray to drive the worst aspects of guyville out the door and into the yard where it belonged.

Now, however, I realize that it must have been the only thing keeping my house from going Full Frontal Frat House. Look, I’m not saying that the females of the house are any neater than the males, or any less aggressive, or even any less aggravating. It’s just that I’d much rather find a pile of empty Starbucks cups on the coffee table than empty 2 liter bottles of Mountain Dew Red. Much rather have to tell someone to get off Tumblr and go to bed than tell them it’s time to say goodnight to all their lovely Call of Duty friends for the evening. (Tumblr, at least, does not involve a headset and shouting at people for accidentally shooting you in the face. Although there is probably a gif that gets the same point across.)

The worst part of it is that I know that this is all just a preview for when my daughter leaves for good and I am left with a house full of boys for years and years. What am I going to to when it is just me and the boys? I suppose I could try and fill the house up with some nonhuman females. It’s not ideal, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

And that, my friends, is where crazy cat ladies must come from.

The first day I picked my daughter, Clementine, up from kindergarten I asked her a stupid question. I asked her “How was your day?” It was stupid because that’s the kind of question that is virtually guaranteed to get you some bland and uninteresting answer like fine. Which is exactly what happened. I tried to rectify my mistake by adding “Anything exciting happen?” but that only elicited a shrug that could have meant “No, we sat in a circle and meditated for six hours” or “Well, there was one kid who showed everybody their vestigial tail during recess.” And so I tried once again. “Did anyone get in trouble?” Finally she took the time to think about her answer. “Yes. One kid. He wouldn’t share.” Ah ha, now we were getting somewhere. “Did he cry?” I asked with a twinge of excitement. “Yes.” A lot?” A small smile. “Yes.” And then the dam broke, and I was finally hearing about her day.

Well, the gossipy bits at least. I never learned what they had for snack, or whether they studied numbers or letters (or both), but I did hear about who shoved who at recess, and who refused to eat any lunch at all, and who was being such a pain at nap time that their mom had to come down and take them home. And then, finally, I heard about how her day really went.

For my part I told her about waiting outside with the other kindergarten parents, and who brought their bad dog that barked at everyone, and who talked on their cellphone the whole time and who didn’t even get out of their car but sat parked in the bus lane until the bus pulled up behind them and HONKED so loudly everyone jumped except for those of us who were watching the whole thing and secretly wishing for it to happen.

And that was the day that, even though no formal agreement was ever reached, Clementine and I decided that “How was your day” really meant “Got any good gossip?”

Don’t get me wrong: it’s not as mean-spirited as it sounds. Well, at least at isn’t on her part. She’s just as likely to tell me about someone’s good fortune as she is to tell me about the really awful fashion choice they made that day—more likely, really. (It is a well-established fact that she is much nicer than me). But it is also a well-established fact (in our relationship, at least), that the sharing of gossip means that you always have at least the first thing to say. And how can you have the second thing to say if you don’t have the first?

And the second thing is where it really gets interesting. The second thing is where the truth comes out. Don’t ask me why, but statements such as “Just because it does zip, doesn’t mean it should,” are usually followed by other even more honest statements. (True, sometimes those statements are along the lines of “You’re such a jerk, Mom” but still.)

Gossip really gets a bad rap. A friend of mine was just complaining about Jane Austen, and her complaint was that Jane Austen’s dialogue reads as nothing but gossip. I was astounded. Of course Jane Austen’s dialogue is pure gossip: that’s what so brilliant about it. When she has one character comment about another, it distills both of their characters down to their essences.

Every time that we gossip about other people we reveal things about ourselves—for better or worse. It’s just the nature of the game. And it’s the whole reason I, for one, like to play it.

And besides that, how else am I ever supposed to find out about some poor kids vestigial tail?

“You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.”–William Blake

Satiety is a relative concept. What is enough for me may be too much for you. Take The Doors, for instance (please). I have a limit of about three Doors songs (two if one of them is “The End”), and then I’m good. I’m full up on The Doors. It’s not that I hate The Doors—it’s just that it doesn’t take very much of them for me to reach my limit.

With other artists it’s different. Back in the day when people still played records because that was how they sold it to you I used to be able to play one Dylan album after another all day long and never grow tired of it. My roommates, however, were a different story. They usually hit the wall around album number seventeen, which, if I was playing them in order, was usually somewhere around Slow Train Coming. I found their lack of Dylan stamina to be intolerable: how could they be done before we even got to the ’80s? But then one of them would take over the stereo for an extended Grateful Dead bootleg session (“No, we haven’t heard this tape yet: that was July 13, 1983. This one is July 14th, 1983. Two totally different shows.”) and I would understand. Sort of.

I tried to keep these memories in mind when I found myself bemoaning the fact that my son, Clyde, had just spent the nineteenth straight day of his summer vacation shooting zombies in the head. The same zombies, because apparently the only way to get to the next level was to go back into the same room over and over again until you figured out the perfect series of moves to get out alive. It was kind of impressive, actually: that’s the kind of dedication that, in another setting (say a cancer research lab) would eventually result in a Nobel prize.

In fact, the man I had in mind when picking Clyde’s name had that same sort of dedication: Clyde Tombaugh was a “junior” astronomer when he spent close to a year of his life painstakingly looking through detailed photographs of the night sky in an attempt to discover “Planet X”—the little blur that would come to be known as Pluto. (This was supposedly well after most of the “real” astronomers up at Lowell had already decided that they had had “enough.”)

There are times, of course, when I am not so willing to let Clyde determine his own level of enough. Soda is a good example of that: given the choice, I’m afraid that Clyde would attempt to subsist on soda alone, like those lab rats who starved to death because they chose to push a button stimulating their brain’s pleasure center over and over again instead of eating. Then again, I could be wrong—I’m just not willing to invest in enough soda (and dental bills) to try and find out. I guess you could say that my reluctance to do so is my own “enough.”

For other things, though, I still think it’s okay to find your own level: just like we hate it when people tell us to take off that sweater because “it’s not cold” (to them, maybe—mutant freakazoid space heaters), we rightfully hate it when someone else tells us we have had “enough” of something we love. Especially if it is obvious that they themselves do not share that same love. Kind of like me and the zombies.

And hey: eventually the summertime zombie slaughter stopped, and it was safe once more to be undead in my living room. Unless, of course, you happened to be an undead Jim Morrison. And then, zombie or not, three songs and you’ve got to go.

When your kids are little it’s easy to win every argument. Even if you aren’t the most articulate debater, there’s really nothing that beats the persuasiveness of simply picking somebody up and carrying them from the room. And, when your opponent’s rhetorical strategy consists of nothing more than stomping their feet and screaming “No, no, no!” it’s a valid option. Things get trickier, however, when your kids get older. Not only do their arguments get more complicated (hopefully), but unless you’re Hercules, the “picking up and carrying” option completely disappears. (Then again, you could be like the 6th century Greek wrestler Milo of Croton, who gained his fantastic strength by picking up the same bull calf and carrying it around every day as it grew bigger.) Even if that is the case, though, just because you have the ability to lift your thirteen year-old up and carry her out of the room doesn’t necessarily mean that you should. For one thing, it’s humiliating for both of you.

Not that I’m against humiliation per se: it’s the “both of you” part that I have a problem with. To tell you the truth, I think humiliating your children is a completely valid discipline strategy. (Although, technically, I prefer the term “mortification.” Because it’s a great word, that’s why. It literally means to “make dead,” whereas “humiliate” just means “to humble,” and when you are having one of those moments when you want the earth to open up and swallow you it is not because you wish to be made more humble. It is because you wish to be made more dead.)

When you think about it, mortification as a form of punishment has been around for a long time. Take the pilgrims, for example, and the way they seemed to like throwing people in the stocks. True, I’m sure that it probably wasn’t exactly comfortable hanging out in the stocks, especially during inclement weather, but wasn’t it really the fact that they were in the town square that made the punishment so unbearable?

Some parents, I have noticed—obviously trying to take a leaf from the pilgrim’s book—have attempted to recreate their own versions of the town square via Facebook and You Tube (the infamous “laptop shooting” incident comes to mind). Here’s the thing, though: making the effort to turn every punishment into a public spectacle is completely unnecessary, because, in a teenager’s mind, everyone is already watching them all of the time.

This is usually something that does not work to a parent’s advantage, because it means that a simple statement, when made in a public setting, will result in a hissed, “Everyone can hear you!” (How is it that a child can feign deafness when you are bellowing in their ear to “STOP!” and yet have Bionic Woman hearing when you tell them under your breath to “stop kicking the seat” in front of them at the movies?)

In cases of punishment, however, this preternatural hearing can be a godsend, especially when it comes to perfecting your parental mortification skills. Just think about it: if reminding them about a dental appointment in front of their friends can send them spiraling into a fit of shame, imagine what telling them they need to go underwear shopping with you will do. Or better yet, threatening to tell them in front of their friends.

Of course, such threats (and the inevitable follow through) would have to be used sparingly, since, theoretically, as they get older, and their skins get thicker, embarrassing them will become harder and harder to do. Unless, of course, you somehow managed to up the embarrassment ante a little bit every day.

That’s actually not a bad idea. We can call it “The Milo of Croton School of Parenting.” With a twist.

Looking back over the years that I have been writing this column, one subject stands out above all others: shoes. Man, I sure do write about shoes a lot. You’d think, for as often as I have covered them, that I would be some sort of Carrie Bradshaw-like shoe aficionado. That I would know the difference between a Jimmy Choo and a Manolo Blahnik. Or that, at the very least, I would have an opinion regarding Nikes versus Adidas. The truth is, however, I could not care less about the shoes I or the people in my family are wearing: as long as everyone has at least one matching pair, I am content. And sometimes I don’t even care if they’re matching: when it comes to flip-flops, for example, does it really matter if they are two different styles? As long as one of them is not some four-inch tall wedge-style flip-flop (the stupidest shoe design EVER), who cares if one of them has pink Barbies on it and the other one is leather? If someone calls you out on it you can always say “Well, why were you looking at my feet in the first place? Pervert.”

But, yeah: for someone who doesn’t really care at all about footwear I sure do seem to write about it a lot. And, as usual, the reasons behind this are the same reasons for so many of the inconsistencies in my life: my children. It is well documented (in this very space) that my children’s shoe loss makes Cinderella look like a rank amateur. However, whereas before this has only been a minor (okay, major) annoyance, now it has become a true matter of life or death (at least as far as my feet are concerned), because this summer marked the arrival of the dreaded day when they both started wearing the same size shoes as me. I think you know where this is going. Yes, the time has come when my own damn shoes aren’t safe in my my own damn house, because now, after my children have shed their shoes out in the wilderness like a couple of inconsiderate snakes, they always know where they can go to get an “extra” pair: me.

If I was the sort of person who believed in monsters under the bed it might freak me out to take off my shoes at night, place them on the floor next to me before I go to sleep, and then find them missing in the morning. I might think that the bed monster was trying to lure me into sweeping my hands back and forth under the bed in the early morning hours, all the better to grab me and pull me under. Instead I know that I have been suckered by a monster of a different order, that my shoes have been tossed somewhere in my dark and messy house, and that it is my unlucky task to try and find them.

I could of course always try waking my kids up and asking them what they did with my shoes, but if the chances of getting a straight answer out of them in their waking hours are slim then the chances of getting one when they are comatose asleep (the only way a teenager sleeps, apparently) are none. And besides, if they had it in them to remember what they had done with any pair of shoes, ever, then we wouldn’t have reached this sad, shoeless state in the first place.

My only hope at this point is that their feet continue to grow past the point where my shoes are a viable option—either that or I start buying shoes so hideous that no one would ever want to wear them.

Remember that the next time you see me walking around in 4-inch wedge flip-flops.