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For most of my children’s lives, they were early risers. Weekends meant nothing to them—when six o’clock would roll around (or even earlier on holidays) they would be up and walking around, if not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, then most definitely empty-stomached and chattering. What’s more, no sooner would they be up then they would be asking me questions, telling me about what they were going to do that day, and asking for—and eating—enormous breakfasts.

And then, one by one, they hit middle school. And it all stopped. Which is, if you ask me, a total gyp.

The whole time they were dragging me out of bed when they were in grade school I used to comfort myself with the knowledge that, while it might be a pain now, at least I didn’t have the type of kids you had to attack with a bucket of cold water and and a cattle prod just to get out of bed and on their feet in the mornings. At least I didn’t have the type of kids that you had to stick a funnel in their mouths and pour in a protein shake just to get them to eat before noon. At least I didn’t have the type of kids that are such a staple in the comics world that the “sleeping teenager” theme sometimes runs simultaneously in four strips in one day. At least, I thought, I didn’t have that.

Ha. That’s what I get for thinking.

The worst part of the whole thing, though, is that I thought it was going to be an either/or proposition. I though you EITHER had kids that woke you up at two AM on Christmas Day, OR you had kids that went into a coma every morning until ten: I didn’t know that it was possible to have both.

Some people say that it is the fault of the schools. That since the natural circadian rhythm of a teenager is to stay up until midnight and then sleep until ten in the morning we are just asking for trouble by making our schools start at seven thirty. That may be true, but, then again, I would also argue that it is in nobody’s “circadian rhythm” to perform quadratic equations at any time of the day or night, and yet we still ask our teenagers to do that. My point is that there are very few people, outside of kings and dictators, who get to choose their own sleep schedule—why should teenagers be allowed to join that select list? I mean, seriously, I don’t know how things are in your house, but in my house I could do with having a few less reasons to be reminded of Khaddafi when I’m dealing with my teens, not more.

And so, having firmly rejected the circadian rhythms argument, I, too, have joined the ranks of those who, every school day, must wake the (sleeping like the) dead. Which means that, I, too, must come up up with an elaborate plan to help those same walking dead get up and get functioning every morning. You know: one of those plans that look like they were co-designed by Wiley Coyote? In our house this means alarm clocks, wake-up calls, threats, and finally, bribes (“We have waaaa-ffles.”)

This, not too surprisingly, fills me with a certain amount of resentment. Where, I wonder, is my triple wake up call? Where is my congratulations when I manage to get myself up and out the door in time to meet my obligations? For that matter, where in the hell are my waffles?

I suppose, if I were being completely honest I would admit that my waffles are back in my own teenage years; unfortunately, however, I don’t recall eating a single one of them.

I guess I slept right through them.

Have you ever heard of Word Cloud? Word Cloud is a site where you can upload your written documents and have them turned into a “cloud.” The Cloud shows you which words you use the most frequently by making them appear larger than the words you use sparingly. Hopefully, the only words that show up in jumbo font are words like “the” and “and;” if your word cloud is dominated by words like “exasperatedly,” “indubitably” and “sesquicentennial,” then your writing might be a little dense—not to mention that it might also have a pretty serious case of the “adverblies.”

Word Cloud is a very helpful device for writers; unfortunately, however, Word Cloud is only available for things that have been written down—it cannot be applied to the spoken word. This is too bad, because there have been lots of times in my dealings with my children when I would have liked to have been able to “word cloud” everything they said and then hand it back to them.

“Here,” I would have said when they were four. “Here’s today’s word cloud.” And then I would have handed them a gigantic “not,” an equally humungous “fair,” and finally, only slightly smaller, a “why.” “Thank” and “you” would have been small enough to fit in the front pocket of a pair of skinny jeans.

That was when they were four. These days, however, while “not” and “fair” are still pretty hefty, and even though “thank” and “you” have grown by leaps and bounds, there would be another pair of words that would dwarf them all. I am speaking, of course, of the number one favorite word in both a teenager and a preteen’s vocabulary. I am speaking, of course, of “forgot.” (Followed—or rather preceded—by it’s twin, “I.”)

Actually, the truth of the matter is that I think I would be a little bit afraid to do a word cloud on them these days, for no other reason than I think the “forgot” might be so huge it would blot out the sun and end all life on earth as we know it. (Or at least hurt a lot if I were to accidentally drop it on my foot.) What’s worse is that I don’t think the “forgot” has even gotten as big as it’s going to get; I think it is going to get bigger before it finally starts to go away—in fact, I think it has to.

Why? Because even now I can see that they have yet hit to hit rock bottom in the memory hole. Even now they are still able, albeit frantically, to pull themselves back from the edge of that hole. One day, though, the time will come when no amount of scrambling will fix things, and they will come to the same conclusion that so many of us were forced to come to ourselves. The conclusion that our lives have become unmanageable, and that the only way they can become manageable again if we give ourselves over to the power of The List.

Why do they resist the list so stridently? There have been so many times when I have begged them to write down the stuff they need to remember that I am sure that if I were to do a Word Cloud on myself, the word that would loom the largest would be “list.” (And, of course, “please” and “now.”) I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t wait for the day when their word cloud is made up of “you were” and “so very.” And who knows? Maybe those words will even be followed by a little bit of “right.”

People who are proponents of the birth order theory (the theory that the order in which you were born into your family determines your personality traits) are always going on about how first born children tend to be stronger and more independent than later children. (This makes me think that most of the proponents of this theory are, in fact, first born children themselves). What they don’t talk about, however, and what I’ve observed in my own house, is that while first born children may very well be stronger and more independent, it is highly unlikely that those traits will contribute much to their future success, because another thing that is true about first born children is that they lack the ability to successfully get away with anything. If high school yearbooks had a “Most Likely To Get Caught” category (and I’m sure, these days, that some do), I’m positive that 99 times out of 100 the “award” would go to a first born child.

Of course, I could just be looking at things the wrong way—maybe firstborns are really no worse at getting away with stuff than other people are. Maybe it’s just that second born children (and beyond) are so much better at getting away with stuff that it makes the firstborns seem incompetent by comparison. But still: the bottom line is that later children are way better at hiding stuff than firstborns could ever hope to be. Who knows—maybe it is the firstborns themselves who bring this about. What I mean is, maybe younger children—because they grow up under the thumb of a larger, more irrational, sometimes malevolent but always irritable older sibling—quickly learn superior hiding and lying skills just to survive. Maybe they’re better at getting away with stuff because if they weren’t their older sibling would make their lives a living hell. Of course, I don’t know for sure if that’s the real reason: all I know is that if I walked into the house and smelled smoke, the oldest would still be standing there with a lit cigarette in her hand while the youngest would already be tucked away on the couch reading the Bible and swallowing the last of a breath mint.

Unfortunately for firstborns, this inability to get away with the things they have actually done also translates into the inability to get away with the things they didn’t do. Or at least things they probably didn’t do. I will admit that there are times when all it takes for me to start yelling at people is to walk in my front door. (The complete styishness of the place doesn’t help.) My youngest seems to be able to sense these moments right away, and can slip off of the couch and slide out the door so fast that it is hard not to believe he hasn’t had some sort of special forces training. My oldest, however, not only doesn’t try to escape, but will actually pick those moments to antagonize me. It’s like she is completely oblivious to the fact that the bear she is currently poking with that large stick is, in fact, outside of its cage. Outside, and ravenously hungry.

Of course, it is probably those same “bear-baiting” skills that will later on translate into the sort of strong, independent behavior that firstborns are so celebrated for, but for now I can’t help but wonder if there is a better (and certainly less irritating) way for her to learn these skills. Why can’t she strongly—and independently—clean the house before I get home from work? Or at least—strongly and independently—not actively contribute to its filthification? The whole thing makes me angry enough to growl just thinking about it. Maybe not growl—maybe just yell a little bit. At somebody.

Now where did that youngest child of mine get off to?

The following conversation seems to take place all too often at my house. Me: What happened to this (shower curtain, toaster, book, door, lawn chair, etc. etc.)? Child: It got broken. Me: But how did it break? Child: I dunno. It just broke. And we need a new one.

In my house, it seems, no person is ever actually responsible for breaking anything: things just simply “break.” It is almost as if my house—and everything in it—is nothing more than a tiny, tiny scale model of the Universe, a place where objects (and, unfortunately, people) march inexorably towards entropy, a place where, despite the best intentions of everyone involved, everything must always eventually fall apart and return to the void. In other words, my house is a living, breathing representation of the second law of thermodynamics, the same law which states that it is the natural tendency of the Universe to fall apart into disorder over time. Of course, the second law of thermodynamics is usually thought to refer to a lot of time—vast amounts. In my house, unfortunately, it all happens on a faster scale. Much, much faster. Like, say, in six months or less.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,” should probably be painted on my front door, a warning to all those who unknowingly enter my house’s accelerated time status. That alarm clock you just bought? Better not bring it inside: it will fast forward to the end of its life in minutes. And your new ipod? Forget about it. It now has a life expectancy of seconds.

Of course, you might get lucky. You might stumble upon one of my house’s rare “time pockets” where things age normally. Curiously, these places all seem to be clustered around the areas where only adults congregate (or are supposed to congregate). Places like my office, my bedroom, and the adjoining bathroom. It’s fascinating, really: a hair dryer that has lived for years quite successfully in my bathroom will, upon a brief relocation to the children’s bathroom, instantly fall apart.

“What happened to this hair dryer?” I’ll ask in dismay, holding the various pieces in my hands.

“It got broke.”

Sometimes I can almost catch the time shift in action. Sitting in the kitchen, I will suddenly notice the sound of a door opening and closing again and again, as if the door was going through an entire lifetime’s worth of opening and closings in one afternoon. Soon thereafter, I will receive the news that “my door got broken.” When I (foolishly) ask what happened to it all I get back will be: “I dunno. It got broke. And we need a new one.”

If I was smart I would figure out a way to work this to my advantage. Have you ever started a recipe without reading the instructions thoroughly, and then, halfway through making it came to a line that said “let sit six months” or something similar? Me, too. If only I had remembered that I could easily have taken care of that step in Clementine’s room in a matter of days.

The worst part about the time shift, though, is that it doesn’t only affect objects: it also affects people. There can be no other explanation for the fact that just last week my kids were toddlers, and now they are teens and preteens. And surely “time shift” is also the only explanation for the fact that I, too, have aged correspondingly. Hmm: and I always thought that the reason I felt so much older every time I went into their rooms was because of the mess. Turns out, it was just the second law of thermodynamics (express version) in action. Again.

Before I start this column, let me just say that I really do understand the reasoning behind school uniforms. I understand how a homogenous look can sometimes help with the awkwardness that comes from having students of vastly differing socioeconomic statuses attending the same school. And I understand that having everyone dress the same way could, perhaps, also create a sense of community between those same wildly differing students. And I even understand how a school uniform can make it easy to spot who belongs and who doesn’t: in a sea of black and white, nothing stands out quite so much as plaid. I understand all of this; I understand uniforms completely. What I don’t understand is the rationale behind a dress code.

Again, there are parts of a dress code I understand. I understand the need—especially when puberty first starts to run rampant through a population—to cover up certain body parts. (I’m talking about the parts that are usually only exposed when visiting a doctor or certain European beaches. Or perhaps when playing doctor on certain European beaches). And I also understand the rationale behind not allowing any type of clothing that glorifies illegal, immoral, or otherwise repugnant behavior. (Please leave your Presidential debate t-shirts at home.) And I even understand the need to place limits on clothing that could be considered distracting or disruptive: no matter how really, really cool that live scorpion bola tie is, it’s probably best to save it for the family reunion. So yeah, I understand both the basic idea of a dress code and the rationale behind implementing one.

What I don’t understand are vague and arbitrarily enforced rules about what color pants and shirt you can and can’t wear that are disguised as a dress code. Those rules I don’t understand at all. (Again, I get the whole homogenous argument, which is why I understand uniforms. But as anyone who has ever argued with their husband about whether those socks are blue or black can tell you, punishing people for wearing the wrong color shirt is a nightmare waiting to happen.)

Take the incident that happened in my family a few years back: my daughter, Clementine, went to a school where she was dress coded for wearing a grey shirt with blue trim around the collar. Grey was an allowable color. Blue was not. The blue in question was no bigger than a shoelace. It was not neon. It did not have batteries. It did not, from certain angles, advertise a particular brand of bong or vodka. It was just blue. And yet she was sent to the office for a “dress code violation.”

Who knows? Perhaps there was a vicious gang sweeping through west coast cities that September leaving a swath of destruction and despair a mile wide in their wake. Perhaps the school had just received word of their activities. And perhaps the name of that gang was…the Grey Shirt With Blue Collar Trim Gang! (Winner of the Most Awkwardly Named New Gang of 2010).

Perhaps.

Or perhaps her school was just so focused on the minutia of following the rules that it forgot why the rules were there in the first place. Perhaps it was so concerned with not appearing slack that it forgot that it was also important not to look ridiculous.

Looking back, I’m still not sure how Clementine wearing a grey shirt with blue trim on the collar that day prevented her from learning the value of x and the history of the former Yugoslavia, unless it was the fact that she couldn’t learn any of that because she was sitting in the office. On the bright side, however, it wasn’t as if she didn’t learn anything; unfortunately, though, in middle school they rarely give tests on”Ways to Survive A Bureaucracy.”

For that, you have to wait for college.

There is an Amanda Palmer song that has become my theme song this Fall: it is dark, it is somber, and it is melancholy, and, well, in a word, it’s perfect. It’s called “I Have to Drive.” Actually, I began to think it might be my theme song two years ago, when Clementine first started going to school at FALA and daily trips to Cheshire became a part of my routine. (Sometimes even more frequently than daily, depending on how much she managed to forget that day. I think my record—or maybe my limit—was four trips in one day.) Then last year, when Clyde started taking dance classes four times a week in Sunnyside, it seemed an even more appropriate theme. This year, however, there is no question about it: not only is Clementine still at FALA, and Clyde is still dancing, but now he has begun to go to school at MEMS, which, as you know, is also in Sunnyside. Oh, and did I mention that both of their music lessons—which are usually right after school—are over by Harkins? Yeah: “I Have to Drive,” is right.

Their music teacher and I have discussed the feasibility of digging a secret tunnel that runs from Cheshire to South Milton. I think it could happen, if we were just organized enough. Remember how in “The Great Escape,” all the Allied POWs took turns digging the escape tunnel out of the German POW camp? Think about it: if every local who was stuck on Milton just jumped out of their cars, ran over to the tunnel, dug a few shovelfuls of dirt and then sprinted (or, if it was a Friday afternoon, strolled) back to their cars, then we could have our secret tunnel dug in no time. Alas, we will probably never be as organized as those Allied POWs, for the simple reason that now we all have smart phones. I mean, realistically, how much digging would the Greatest Generation have accomplished if they had had Angry Birds and Facebook at their fingertips?

The other option their teacher and I have discussed is installing pneumatic tubes all around town so that we could just pop a child into the tube and have them pop out a minute later at their school/dance class/music lesson. Just like when you make a deposit at the drive thru at the bank. Of course, it probably wouldn’t be very comfortable. And there would always be the chance that, just like when you try to deposit twenty dollars in pennies, they could get stuck. I think, however, if tubes were a viable option I would be willing to put up with those slight inconveniences—especially since it wouldn’t be like I was the one who was being inconvenienced. But the fact that it might also be hard on the violins and dance costumes does give me pause, not to mention that taking the tube to school would just give them yet another chance to lose their homework. (“Where’s your math homework?” “The tube ate it.”) And then there’s the little issue of them already having had a version of this in “The Jetsons,” and, if I remember correctly, even with the tubes Jane Jetson still had to drive the kids to school. In her pajamas. Which I’ve done.

So then: no tunnel, and no tubes. That just leaves two options: either my kids start doing less stuff, or everybody else and their kids starts doing less stuff, so that at least the roads are clear when I have to make my daily dash from Cheshire to Sunnyside. Any takers? (Put your hands down, dads: we all know this is a question for the moms.)

Yeah, that’s what I thought. Alright, then: cue up my theme song. School is about to get out, and I have to drive.

The other day I threw out or gave away all of my son, Clyde’s, toys. The only ones I kept were the ones that had some kind of sentimental value, and only then when they had sentimental value to me. (The broken wind-up toy that he got in Paris got to stay, while the still functioning Gameboy went to Goodwill. And as for the action figures, the only one that got to stay was the Martian Mindhunter, because, really, Martian Mindhunter is just fun to say.) Clyde didn’t make any fuss at all about the things I got rid of: in fact, sometimes I would hold up a particular toy and say, “What do you think, Clyde? Should we get rid of this?” and he wouldn’t say a single word against giving that item the heave-ho. “Well, okay then,” I would continue, “if you’re sure…” And into the trash (or Goodwill bag) it went.

Contrast Clyde’s reaction to the Great Toy Purge to that of the daughter of a friend of mine: this girl not only responded to the removal of just some of her toys with piteous wails, she also clung to the items as they were removed from the house like they were relatives being sent off to the camps. At one point the garbage can even became a sort of toy tomb where she sat and cried. (I’ve never really understood what exactly happens when somebody “gnashes their teeth,” but I’m thinking it probably looks very similar to what this child was doing.)

So why the big difference between the two children? True, Clyde is a few years older than this girl. And also, he is a boy (although as any mother of a son can tell you, boy drama can be just as potent as girl drama—sometimes even more so). But really, I think the biggest difference was distance: whereas the girl was right in the room as the Great Toy Purge was happening, Clyde was on a trip with his dad, half a world away.

Wait: you didn’t think that Clyde was actually in the room with me when I asked him if it was okay if I threw out this toy or that, did you? Of course not: do you think I’m crazy? No, operating under the assumption that it is usually easier to obtain forgiveness than permission, I waited until I knew that Clyde would be gone for a few days before I began the Great Purge. And if I did ask an imaginary Clyde what he thought of what I was doing a time or two, well, removing five bags of garbage, two bags of toys, three bags of clothing and enough books and games for a $100 Bookman’s credit does tend to make a person somewhat punchy, don’t you know.

When I suggested to my friend that she take the same approach the next time she embarks on another Purge of her own she demurred by saying, “But that wouldn’t be fair.” To which I replied, “I know: isn’t it great?”

Look, I used to be all about “playing fair,” too. And then I realized that me and my kids have very different notions of what “fair” actually means. To me, “fair” means that everyone gets an equal shot. To them, it means that they get what they want. Period. This is understandable: if I’m honest, I’ll admit that I would like to get what I want to get all of the time, too. But the difference is that at least I know what I want. I know that I’d rather have a clean room and a $100 Bookman’s credit than a pile of unused toys and ancient board books.

And I’m sure Clyde will, too. Just as soon as he notices.

Sometimes, there’s a real disconnect between what we, as parents, say we want for our children, and what we are actually happy about getting. For example: we say we want them to become strong, independent thinkers, but when they use that independence to question some of our deeply cherished beliefs, we tell them to “think again.” Along those same lines, we say we want them to be strong enough to withstand peer pressure, yet when they turn that same discernment on the things we are pressuring them to do (all good and valid, of course), we are taken aback.

It’s a strange balancing act: how do you teach someone not to be sucked into believing something just because “The Man” tells you to believe it, when you yourself are the biggest Man (at least in their lives) of all? I suppose that, just like the Wizard of Oz, all you can do is give them the tools they need (heart, brains, courage, home) and then let them figure out how to use them on their own. Even if sometimes—also just like the Wizard—that means that you get revealed as the man behind the curtain. Which is kind of, sort of, exactly what happened to me just the other day.

Here’s the story. Clementine and I were parked at the Flagstaff Family Food Center, waiting for her shift to start. (When life permits, she volunteers in the kitchen a few hours a week.) It was pouring down rain, so we we were sitting in the front seat of my car, watching a few men who were also waiting out the rain in the same parking lot. I stared at the men without really seeing them for several moments, watching them getting wetter and wetter as they stood huddled under the eaves of the food center, and then I turned to Clementine and said, “You know what I want to do when I get home? I want to watch ‘Winnie the Pooh.’ The scene where it floods in the Hundred Acres Woods. I want to watch that scene: I wonder if Netflix has it on instant queue?”

I pulled out my phone to check, and then began to mutter unhappily when I found that Netflix did not, in fact, have “Winnie the Pooh” or any other Disney movie on instant queue.

“Well, this sucks,” I groused. “I guess even from beyond the grave it’s not a dollar until it’s in Walt Disney’s pocket…I wonder if I can buy it on Playstation?…”

“You could watch something else,” Clementine suggested.

“I don’t want to watch something else,” I whined. “I want to watch this. I want to go home, put on my pajamas, get under a fluffy blanket and drink a cup of Earl Grey tea while watching ‘Winnie the Pooh.’ And now I can’t.”

Clementine looked at me, sulking in the driver’s seat, and then she glanced at the men huddled under the eaves, and then back at me again. “I’m so sorry to hear about your First World problems,” she said. “They sound really terrible.”

And just like that, instead of me being the one that needed to remind her how lucky she was to have all of the things she took for granted, she was the one who was reminding me. The curtain had come down.

I considered for a moment making some kind of “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” type of remark, pointing out all of the times when she, too, had made some kind of “first world complaint” in my presence, but, wisely (and, for me, surprisingly) I didn’t. I guess sometimes even The Man knows when they have been bested.

There is an old adage that says that if you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemies float by. This, I think, perfectly describes how I feel about other parents.

Not that I want to see their bodies literally floating by. No, not at all. It’s just that this is the image I always amuse myself with when I find myself on the receiving end of another parent’s judgement: it is a powerful reminder to myself that it doesn’t matter what they might think (or say) about my parenting style right now, because, if I am patient enough, sooner or later they will be faced with the same decisions that I was—and then it will be my turn to judge them.

Or not. Honestly, for the most part I try really hard not to judge other parents (at least not out loud). I’d like to believe that in my best version of myself I am rooting for every parent to be successful in their parenting, no matter how uptight they are, no matter how profoundly their parenting style differs from mine, and especially no matter how many really nasty things they have said about me behind my back. I’d like to believe that, but the truth is I get a not-so-secret glee when I am down by that metaphorical river and I see I-would-never-allow-my-child-to-play-video-games float by on a bier made of Wii paddles, or My-Child-Will-Be-Raised-A-Vegan float by on a barge made of Happy Meal toys.

It’s not that I want to see something bad happen to the child—never that—it’s just that it’s hard not to experience a certain amount of schadenfreude when a fellow parent who delighted in judging you suddenly hits the same rough patch that you had to navigate, and ends up flailing just as badly as you did.

I find that this is especially true of the parents whose children are a few years younger than mine; the ones who watched my family struggling with all of the standard issues of adolescence and smugly asserted that, when the time came, their child would never act that way. The same ones who asked if I had tried giving a twelve year old “a timeout.” The ones who didn’t believe me when I replied that timeouts get a little more complicated when you are no longer able to physically pick up your child and carry them into another room. When the threat of “no more Playstation” has the same effect as “no more juice boxes in your lunch.” (Speaking of Playstation, my advice to all young parents is to GET ONE IMMEDIATELY, and make sure your kids start playing it ALL OF THE TIME. Discipline is so much easier when you still have something that you can take away.)

Of course, true to my (sometimes) better nature, there are also those times when I feel like I am being judged and there is another image that brings me comfort: it is the one where I sit by the river and watch nothing at all float by; in other words, sometimes I am sanguine enough to be able to imagine a time when we have all of us moved past the stage of parenting where we are so insecure that we feel the need to sit in judgement of others, and have begun to realize that, one way or another, we are all in this together, and it is in all of our own best interests to help other parents succeed, whether we agree with their particular style of parenting or not.

And besides, sooner than we know it none of this stuff will matter anymore, and we can all start concentrating on the really important things in life. Like sitting around and judging each other’s grandparenting skills.

The other day I had the misfortune to be home when someone I really didn’t want to see came over to my house—not just came over, mind you, but actually came inside. Now, as as any rational, well-adjusted adult will tell you, the only thing to do when confronted with a situation like that is to calmly, firmly, and politely tell the interloper that their presence is not wanted. It is, after all, the mature thing to do. Which is probably why I jumped out the window.

It’s not as bad as it sounds: my house is only one story. But the side of the house I jumped out of is the side that is squished up against my neighbor’s house, and it is the side where we both have tried to rectify this lack of privacy by planting lots and lots of lilac bushes: so many lilac bushes, in fact, that while it is very private, it is also a rather impenetrable jungle—impenetrable, that is, unless you happen to jump out a window.

Which I did.

Since the window was rather large (that’s how I fit), once I was outside I thought that the best thing to do would be to get out of sight, because, really, the only thing that could possibly be more embarrassing than jumping out a window to avoid someone is getting caught jumping out a window to avoid someone. And so that is how it was that I came to be crawling along the side of my house, leaving clumps of hair and pieces of skin in the lilac bushes, and it is also how it came to be that I eventually arrived at the small spaces underneath my children’s windows, where I discovered, to my chagrin, that I have been falsely accusing them for over a year now. I have been accusing them of losing all of my dishes, but, as it turns out, they hadn’t lost them at all: they had just thrown them out of their windows.

Suddenly I understood the frantic sounds I had heard behind closed doors every time I threatened to come in for a surprise room inspection. “I’m coming in,” I would warn, “and there better not be any dishes in there.” When I would burst in I would always find them sitting on their beds, the pictures of innocence, not a dish in sight. I now realize, of course, that it was actually the picture of deviousness. Unfortunately, however, for both of our sakes, it was not really the kind of deviousness that is very clever.

Because, if it had been the clever kind of deviousness then than they would have gone outside and picked up the evidence at least once in the past year—if not to bring them in and wash them then at least to throw them away. (Preferably somewhere I wouldn’t find them; a strategy they might also consider using when trying to hide other kinds of evidence. Here’s a hint, for any of you that may be needing to hide something in the near future: the very top of the garbage can is not the best of hiding places—especially when the person you are trying to hide the object from is also the one who takes out the trash.)

The funny thing, though, is that while it is true that I was not at all pleased to find a pile of my dishes outside of their windows, I was also a little impressed: throwing the dishes out the window definitely implies a certain level of “outside of the box”—or rather, window—thinking. And isn’t that exactly the kind of problem solving we want our kids to develop?

And, after all, it could have been worse: at least when they got an unwanted visitor they threw something out of their windows besides themselves.