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Do you remember the Talking Heads movie True Stories, the one which featured a woman who had decided to spend the rest of her life in bed? Sometimes I think that my children would be much happier living with that woman, or at least more comfortable, because nothing sets them at their ease more than me being flat on my back in bed incapacitated by either sleep or illness. I don’t know what it is–there’s just something about me being vertical that brings out all of their nascent requests for help. I’m not talking about philosophical help, either: answering questions that are, by their very nature, meant to be pondered from beneath the covers. Questions such as: “Why do bad things happen to good people?” (Although, when roused form a sound sleep to answer such a question, my reply is likely to be along the lines of “Because there are no good people–everyone has it coming. Now go away.”) No, I’m talking about being woken up by such burning issues as “Can you fill up my Super Soaker for me?” (To which I’m tempted to reply: “That depends. What, exactly, do you want me to fill it up with?”). Or even “Can you cut this wristband off of me? (That is from a concert I attended 3 days ago, but only now, when you have finally achieved REM sleep, must immediately come off).”

I suppose, in a way, I should be grateful: at least now that my bedroom is the preferred audience chamber, the bathroom has been given a reprieve (there’s nothing like trying to read the new National Geographic in the smallest room in the house only to be interrupted by someone handing you a plate of waffles and a stick of butter and saying, “Can you fix these for me?”). I could even look at this new change in venue as a sign that they are growing up and learning to respect personal boundaries (or at least learning to be grossed out by the sight of their mom on the toilet), if it wasn’t for the fact that a more likely explanation is that they have finally realized that the chances of my burying my head beneath the pillow and shouting, “Yes, yes, fine–whatever you want!” are so much greater in the bedroom than in the bathroom. Still–even if you factor out all those free “please excuse my daughter’s absence” notes–it can’t be all that much fun to keep going back into the lion’s den over and over again. I mean, it’s not like I respond to these intrusions in such a manner as to encourage repetition. Or do I? After all–what do I know?–I’m asleep (or at least trying to be); perhaps what seems to me to be my fiercest growl is, in all actuality, only a pathetic little miaow.

If only there was some way I could check. I know that they have sleep clinics that help people figure out their sleep disorders, but somehow I doubt that my problem would fit within their rubric. And anyway, what would I say to them?

“So, you see, I fall asleep–no, falling asleep is no problem, I don’t need any help with that–and what happens is that after I fall asleep some little person comes into my room and asks me to build them a castle made of popsicle sticks for tomorrow’s report on the Middle Ages. What? No, they’re not imaginary–anyway, what I need for you to do is to watch how I react, and maybe jot down some notes on whether or not the intruder runs from the room in tears, or skips out stifling a giggle and saying, ‘Ok, your turn next.’”

Who am I trying to kid? They’d hang up on me even before I got to the popsicle sticks. I know I sure would–if only I could.

I used to think that I understood memory: whether it was the fickle type (like Ronald Reagan’s during the Iran Contra hearings) or the persistent (like Proust and his madeleines), I always believed I understood how memory worked: an event occurred, and it was either remembered, or it wasn’t; there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of room for shades of gray. And then I had my daughter, Clementine, and I realized that, actually, there were more kinds of memory than had ever been dreamt of in my philosophies: not only were there such things as good memories, bad memories, and even false memories, but there was also something that could only be described as a contrary memory, or a memory that seemed to exist just to cause chagrin.

How else would you explain Clementine’s redacted memories of nearly every event in our family’s history?

Take pancake breakfasts, for example–the kind they hold at fire stations and American Legion halls. It has long been our family tradition to attend any and all pancake breakfasts; in fact, we have been sitting under portraits of JFK and eating rubbery pancakes off of paper plates since before we could even be considered a “family” at all–back when it was just my husband and myself. And, really, why wouldn’t we? I mean, where else will you ever get the chance to speak with the governor while an eight-year-old is trying to take your order? (This really happened–Fourth of July, 2005). And where else can you tuck into a meal groaning under the weight of it’s own carbohydrates without feeling a single bit of guilt? (Have seconds, even: it’s all for a good cause.) And so, with such a long history of public service eating, it was no surprise to find our family attending a recent pancake breakfast at the downtown American Legion Hall–a fundraiser for the local swim team, the Flagstaff Snow Sharks. Or, at least it was no surprise to anyone but Clementine.

Since this event had the audacity to take place in the morning (also known in our house as The Time of She Who Must Not Be Awakened), it was a very surly Clementine indeed that sat across the table from us, desultorily picking at her pancakes, and an even surlier one who finally pushed them aside and asked, “So, when did we decide we were going to start doing these “family” things?” In vain I tried to point out to her our family’s long history of attending pancake breakfasts, and, in fact, had just started in on a recitation of the many years we had attended this breakfast alone (complete with the corroborating evidence of the many times we had urged her to join the Snow Sharks while sitting at these very tables) when, continuing on as if I had never spoken, she added an equally petulant: “And how come you never let me join a swim team?

At this point my reply started to sound more like scatting than talking: in fact, I was so amazed that I found it difficult to even speak in complete words, let alone complete sentences.

“But I–you–we–what about–how can–crazy–don’t you remember?”

“No,” she said cooly, looking around the room and clearly imagining all the happy years she could’ve spent with her swim club pals, if only we hadn’t been so damn selfish. “I don’t.”

On reflection, I should’ve been prepared for both denials–the pancake and the swim club one. After all, she also has clear memories of all the times we didn’t allow her to learn to ski, wouldn’t let her try new foods, and how we, for years, fiendishly kept her from discovering how much she really liked baseball. To hear her tell it, it was a childhood straight out of Oliver Twist. Or at least the Clementine version of it.

When I was in middle school, I rode the bus with a girl named Shelly who always sat near the front of the bus so that she could pass judgement on everyone who walked by. Her observations were always correct, and always cruel: anyone capable of getting by her with their egos intact would’ve had no problem trying to pledge an elite sorority with spinach in their teeth or trying out for American Idol with laryngitis. In other words, no one passed her unscathed, least of all me. And yet, curiously enough, her early role as a tormentor seemed to leave no lasting impact on her whatsoever; a few years back she ran into my mother and asked her–with complete sincerity–how I was. “Did you tell her that I was still ‘hating her every day?’” I replied when my mother relayed the conversation to me. “No,” she said, in the tone of one who is now having second thoughts. “I told her you were ‘fine.’”

Still, despite my snarling reply, in the many, many, many years that have passed since I was in middle school I’d like to think that I have moved past that particular incident. Which is good, because if my poor little ego had still been bruised from that long ago encounter, it would be positively shredded today.

The reason? I live with a preteen girl. Or, as we like to call her, The Critic.

Here’s a sample of a typical dialogue (or rather, monologue, since I rarely bother to respond) with The Critic. “Why are you wearing a dork sweater today? Did you know you have a zit on your chin? Your teeth look especially yellow this morning. Wow, you really look tired. Those pants don’t fit you anymore. You’re not going to get up and dance, are you? Here, where people can see you?” And so on. You’ve heard of Chinese Water Torture? This is the same idea, but with criticism: drip, drip, drip on your ego.

Surprisingly though, there are actually some advantages to living with constant criticism. For instance, say you’re one of those people who hears voices inside your head. I’m not talking about the type of voices John Hinckley heard urging him to “kill the President, kill the President,” (boy, talk about a man who was born before his time), but about those other voices, the ones that like to remind you how pathetic and unattractive you are. Perhaps, like me, you would like to get rid of these voices, or at least turn them so that they are on your side. With a preteen daughter, it can be done; once she is in your head there won’t be room for anyone else’s negativity. As an added bonus, the old voices in your head may even get to feeling so sorry for you, and so resentful of outside critics, that they’ll switch over to your side.

Think about it: surely every now and then all the critics in your life (real and imaginary) must get together–perhaps at a convention–to discuss new developments. (“Ok folks, listen up: she’s finally come to terms with her hair–we’re no longer recommending you do the hair–but, with age, a new item has come up: varicose veins. These babies are a goldmine–you can hit her with both health and appearance at the same time.”)
And maybe, at the most recent one of these that was held for my critics, there was an emergency meeting where it was determined–regretfully–that due to the extraordinary volume of work being produced by the Flagstaff field operative, all other operations would be suspended for the foreseeable future.
“The market has been completely saturated,” stated chief-voice-inside-the-head U.R. Phat, in a press release discussing the radical decision. “We need to back off and consider our options.”
Hey, it’s possible. At least it would explain Shelly.

“But what I really like are Margarita-flavored wine coolers.”

“Mmmm?”

Seeing as I was trying not to allow myself to be drawn into this conversation any more than was necessary, I tried to make my answering “mmmm?” sound polite, yet noncommital. Not that I didn’t find the subject interesting, mind you (who wouldn’t be interested in combining tequila and wine–talk about “two great tastes that taste great together”), but because I was trying to limit the amount of time I would have to spend conversing, period; after all, standing in a South Phoenix dollar store discussing the relative merits of various types of fine malt liquor was not exactly how I had planned on spending my weekend getaway. Of course, I hadn’t planned much of anything, which is what had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

In my defense, at least it was planned unplanning. The plan was that I would allow my almost 12-year-old daughter, Clementine, to pack her own bag for a weekend trip to Phoenix. No checking behind her back, and no asking leading questions–if she said that she was ready, then that was it: I would believe her and we would go. It would be, I thought, good practice for all those times in the not-so-distant future when she really would be the one who was solely responsible for the contents of her bag. Besides, I figured: it’s only a two day trip–how far wrong could she go if she was only packing for two days? And so, aside from stashing an extra toothbrush in my own bag, I trusted her when she said that her bag was “all packed and ready to go.” Which goes a long way to explaining the laughter I heard as my husband started putting all of our things away in the hotel drawers.

“What’s so funny?” I asked him with a growing sense of dread as he stood chuckling over Clementine’s Harry Potter backpack. Without a word he laid out her entire wardrobe for the next two days–two days that were to include nothing but swimming in the hotel pool and watching a Diamondbacks game: first, a formal, full-length dress; then a heavy sweatshirt; and finally, three gloves (not three pairs of gloves–three gloves). That was it. As he pulled each item out of the bag–each more bizarre than the next–I couldn’t help but expect the whole thing to turn into some sort of Mary Poppins-esque montage. In other words, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to see him pull out a snowshoe, a stuffed swordfish or a barber pole; after all, any of those items would have been just as useless and odd as what she brought.

Since I was unwilling to let go of my original belief that this was all “good practice,” I decided that I would make her actually live with the results of her packing for the duration of our trip. This, of course, lasted less than twelve hours, after I realized that, really, no one would suffer more from Clementine’s inability to enjoy the weekend than myself. However, in a last ditch effort to keep the “lesson” part of the weekend alive, I declared I would not spend any more money than necessary on replacing the forgotten items. Which is why I ended up spending my first morning not lounging by the pool, but rather looking for cheap swim wear in a dollar store.

Still, even though this particular version of the independence trial run was a failure, I remain committed to the idea of it; after all, no one expects a kid to drive a car without first taking a few lessons–why should other aspects of growing up be any different?

Besides which: those margarita-flavored wine coolers turned out to be pretty good.

I used to think that, in order to be considered a true champion of the lame excuse, you had to either be a hung-over college student or an over-booked contractor. Because, theoretically, only someone with a few years of experience and almost zero sense of accountability should be able to keep a straight face (or at least a straight voice–the best excuses are usually given over the phone) while uttering such stinkers as: “I can’t come in to work this morning because my room-mate found a centipede in the kitchen, and I was up all night worrying about it,” or, “I won’t be able to finish that job at your house today after all because my dog broke his toenail.” Other classics include “I can’t come to work because my dog bit my brother’s probation officer and I have to go get him out of the pound (the dog, not the brother),” and “I didn’t call when I said I would last night because I was caught in a bear trap.” (Note: none of these excuses are made up–at least not by me. They are all 100% true lies.)

My thinking, in excluding children from the pantheon of great lame excuse artists, was that only an adult would have the chutzpah necessary to follow through on a really lame excuse. Let’s face it: almost anyone can come up with a whopper, but it takes a certain kind of cold-blooded indifference to see one through to the end. This is where it usually falls apart for kids, because while they are completely capable of coming up with a stunner (“my dog ate my homework,” anyone?), when pushed they will usually panic and blurt out the truth.

In fact, children are usually so bad at lying (and yet, perversely, so willing to attempt it) that you could almost measure a child’s movement into adolescence to the minute by their reaction to that old parental chestnut: “Tell me the truth; you know I can always tell when you’re lying.” (See what I mean? Only an adult could pull off that one and still keep a straight face.)

This link between creative truth management and approaching adulthood was the reason, then, that I was both melancholy and excited when, a few weeks ago, my daughter, Clementine managed to not only offer up a truly terrible lame excuse (like the child she is), but to stand resolutely behind it (like the adult she will become)–all the while keeping a straight face. A full grown politician couldn’t have done better. And, if that wasn’t enough to make me swell up with pride, there was also the fact that this excuse was not only lame, it was original. No “the dog ate my homework” for my girl (or even one of it’s more believable–for our house at least–cousins, such as “my brother’s rat made a nest out of my homework”), but rather a lame excuse that was, all at once, original, local, and timely (see: that’s how you know it’s true). In short, the latest entry into the lame excuse Hall of Fame was the following:

“I can’t clean my room this week because I’m nervous about taking the AIMS test.”
Brilliant.

Here was an excuse that, while palpably bogus, was just cutting edge enough to give you pause. After all, the school had been sending home notes all week imploring parents to not only feed their children on test days, but to also allow them to sleep beforehand (something I had heretofore never realized was optional); maybe all that hype really had been enough to overwhelm a young girl’s nervous system. Maybe, I thought, I should let her slide on her chores this week.

Then again, maybe not. But you have to admit: it was a really nice try.

Possibly the only thing my daughter, Clementine, hates more than my sarcastic responses to some of her best dramatic moments are my “pithy” sayings. She hates it when, in reply to her question as to why I insist on checking under her bed every time she “cleans” her room I say, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me,” or when, after presenting me with some injury she believes worthy of a school absence I come back with “It’s a long way from your heart.” But, ironically, the one she should hate the most is the one that she has never heard: “You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” And the reason she has never heard it is because whenever she is in the state that most inspires it is exactly when the rest of us are most likely to avoid saying anything to her at all.

Of course–as with most things to do with Clementine–it doesn’t help matters that in this, too, her little brother Clyde is her complete opposite. When it comes to getting what he wants, he is the honey. Take, for example, my most recent trip to the shoe store: even though Clementine was clearly the one who was in desperate need of shoes (the ones she were wearing were so outgrown that her new pair turned out to be a full three sizes larger), I refused to actually get off the couch and over to the store until the day Clyde gave me an adorable picture he had drawn of the two of us standing together surrounded by hearts–one in which the stick figure representing Clyde can clearly be seen to be wearing a brand new pair of sneakers. (Whereas Clementine’s limping into the room with shoes held together by duct tape and growling “You need to buy me new shoes” had no effect on me whatsoever.)

By the same token, Clyde usually fares better in the breakfast department: his cheery “Good morning, best-Mom-in-the-world. What’s for breakfast?” can move me into creating weekday funnel cakes, whereas Clementine’s surly “You forgot to buy milk again,”–bowl of dry cereal in hand–only succeeds in inspiring my return growl of: “Improvise.”

Still, I do sympathize with her: I am well aware that the charm gene in our family is almost wholly gender specific (the women in our family are more likely to be known for our “get the hell away from me” glares than our “come hither” glances). Also, it can’t be easy competing for favors with a pint-sized ladies’ man; although I’ll admit I’m no great shakes in the suavity department myself, that doesn’t mean that I’m not still very much affected by it. Case in point: I may be years away from high school, but that doesn’t stop me from being reduced to a compliant puddle every time the cutest boy in the room sidles up next to me and says, “You look nice. Can I have a cookie?”

Not too surprisingly, Clementine–blessed with a sibling’s immunity to almost all forms of brotherly charm–is completely disgusted by these maneuvers. What is surprising, though (to me at least), is that my husband is as well; not only is he, too, almost completely immune to Clyde’s little overtures, but he also regards Clyde’s playerism with the kind of disdain that only one man can feel for another while he watches him successfully schmooze.

You’d think it wouldn’t be that way, that he would be happy that it is his own son–a member of his own gene pool, no less–who is having such luck, but that’s not the case at all. Then again, it’s probably hard to cheer anyone on while they’re buttering up your own wife–including your son. Especially when success usually means having to share your bed with the interloper yet again.

Recently, my family had the dubious privilege of being present at the opening of The Great Rift. Not the one in Africa, or even the one in Cardiff, but the one that appeared in the seat of Clementine’s pants.

I call it “great” not because of the size of the tear (although, stretching nearly from cheek to cheek as it did, it was quite substantial), but because, unfortunately, the pants in question happened to be Clementine’s only pair.

Well, not really. Not by adult standards. But then again, adult standards are so lax that we actually believe that just because someone has so many pairs of pants that the only way they can shut their dresser drawer is by scooping out the top layers and slinging them into the dirty clothes hamper they have pants to wear. Sure, by those standards she still had plenty of pants. But by Clementine standards it was her very last pair.

Now, before you go taking her side and assuming that this is because her other pants are so hideous that even Jan Brady would look askance at them, know this: all those pants were picked out by Clementine herself; at one point, each pair was not only wanted but positively begged for. Somehow though, one by one, they each fell out of favor–some of them even making this descent during their brief trip from shopping bag to drawer. The problem, it seems, is that no matter how good a pair of pants might look in the store–no matter how thoroughly they destroy their dressing room competition–once they get home they still have to face their ultimate rival: The Chosen Ones.

The Chosen Ones are those pants that get called up for duty morning after morning; in the singles’ bars of the pants world, they are what’s known as a sure thing. Facing that kind of competition, can you really blame the others for bowing out (or, more precisely, “bowing into the dirty clothes hamper,”)? Of course not: they know they don’t stand a chance against a rival like that–not even when that rival has a tear in the seat big enough to drive a–well, drive a butt through. And this even though they are, to all outside observers, completely identical to The Chosen Ones in every quality. (And, when it comes to their butt-hiding qualities, even a little bit superior.)

Of course, identical to an adult and identical to a child are two completely different things: to a discerning child, no two pairs of pants are ever the same. For one thing, just like with certain valuable antiques, a truly loved pair of pants will have acquired an ingrained layer of filth (the “patina”) that makes them unique. Then again, even without this feature, there are still other highly mysterious factors that determine which pair will be The Chosen Ones. (One theory is that–like stallions fighting for dominance of the herd–the pants every so often must fight their way to supremacy, with the victor throwing itself spent and torn on the floor besides the child in question’s bed. This also explains why the dresser drawers are so often messed up.)

Which brings us back to the problem of The Great Rift: since the pair in question had been vanquished not by another champion, but by an outside force (me, throwing them away), suddenly the line of succession was no longer secure. How would the new champion be chosen? Would there be a lottery? Feats of strength (with special emphasis being placed on “butt strength)?
Although I was tempted to stay up that night and learn the inner secrets of the pants tribe (and be present when the puffs of indigo smoke signaled a new Chosen Pair), in the end I decided that–as with many aspects of child-raising–there are just some things it is better not to know.

A few months ago, there was a newspaper article about an East coast woman who was being arraigned for child neglect. It seems that last year, just before Christmas, her two preteen daughters had spent the afternoon going around their neighborhood collecting change for the Salvation Army. Later that evening she drove them and their two-year-old sister down to the local Wal-Mart so that they could pour the money into a collection kettle, whereupon she was promptly cited for both child neglect and endangerment. My first thought upon reading this story was Boy, and I thought I had a thing about Wal-Mart. However, after a closer reading I discovered that she wasn’t actually being cited for exposing her children to a culture of Everyday Low Wages (she never set foot in the store), but for leaving her sleeping two-year-old inside her car while she walked her older children to the collection kettle–a car that was locked, had its alarm system engaged, and was parked within her line of site in the nearby loading zone–with the hazard lights flashing. Oh, and did I mention that it was December, and that it was sleeting outside?

For this she is facing not only a $2000 fine, but also the wrath of the internet, where posts are being made daily denigrating her both for her unfitness as a mother and for her criminal lack of common sense (or, as most posters put it, for not understanding “how the world is today”–this from people who probably couldn’t find Darfur on a map if you spotted them the latitude and the longitude.) As you have probably guessed, I feel nothing but sympathy for this mother, as I would for any mother who is unfortunate enough to be pilloried in the fickle courts of public opinion.

President, pop star, and parent: are there any jobs to which people feel more entitled to comment upon the job holder’s shortcomings than these? At least in the case of Presidents and pop stars the argument can be made that they must have seen it coming: after all, even the most Nepotically-elected President or stage-managed starlet had to undergo some kind of an audition–with parenting, however, there is no preparation at all before you are thrust into the public’s (very critical) eye; from the first moment you and your newborn appear in the world there is somebody there trying to tell you that you are doing it wrong. (Ironically, the first criticism many new parents receive is for taking their baby out in public too soon; in other words, they are criticized for exposing the baby to people just like the critic.)

And it’s not as if the criticism stops there. People feel extraordinarily free to comment on the things you are feeding (or not feeding) your child, the clothes they are wearing (or are not wearing), the pediatrician you visit–even the manner in which you decide to deal with their poop. (I’ll always remember the woman who peered at my infant son and sadly announced: “You know, that type of diaper isn’t very good for his testicles.”)

And yet, being chastised by all the grandmothers in the world must pale in comparison with being slammed in countless internet blogs as an “unfit mother,” simply because you took two steps away from you car on a snowy night.

The real issue here, I believe, is control–or at least the illusion of it. We’d like to think that if we could only control everything–if we could only do everything “right”–then nothing bad will ever happen to our children; the bad things will be reserved for the mother who left a sleeping toddler in a car, or let her six-year-old eat an unwashed apple. Or maybe, even, exhibited criminal indifference when confronted with the potentially dire future of her young son’s nether regions.

Where childhood development is concerned, I’d like to believe that I’m pretty laid-back–especially when it comes to the whole notion of a “time line.” In fact, when my children were smaller, anyone who suggested to me that they might be “late” getting started on something like potty-training always got the same response–“I’m sure it will happen when they’re ready; after all, you don’t see too many 20-year-olds who have yet to learn to use the potty.” (Although, having shared a house with several male room-mates while I was in college, I have to admit that the bar for actually knowing how to “use” a toilet is set fairly low.)

I have taken this same approach to many of childhood’s “milestones”: tying their own shoes, telling time, sleeping in their own bed–in each of these instances I have tried to take the laissez-faire approach–with most of the emphasis being placed on the “lazy.” Why, I thought, should I drive myself crazy trying to teach them something that they are obviously not yet ready to learn? Wouldn’t it be better to focus on where they were right now than try to push them on to the next stage? It was, I felt, the most “Be Here Now” approach to parenting I could come up with, and I’ll admit that it continually filled me with no small amount of smug satisfaction. Which makes it all the harder to understand why, when it came time for Clyde to learn how to ride a bike, I became such a jerk.

I was never this way with his, sister, Clementine–and her bike ( a very cool vintage Schwinn with the original “Good Buddy” banana seat still attached) was purchased for her back when she was still in utero. Sure, we encouraged her a little bit–we took her up and down the street a few times to show her the basics–but after that we left her on her own. Amazingly, this plan actually worked: after mulling it over for 18 months or so, one day she just picked up her bike and took off riding.

With Clyde, on the other hand, I am downright mean.

“Did you hear about the party I’m throwing?” I casually asked him after he rode his scooter home from school yet again. “It’s going to be at Peter Piper Pizza–all the pizza and tokens kids want. It’s only for bike riders, though; no scooter riders allowed. Too bad you won’t be coming.” And then I rode off–on my bike.

Poor Clyde: part of the reason that he is getting the hard sell whereas Clementine did not is that he is the last one. While Clementine was taking her own sweet time to learn how to ride a bike, Clyde was still a toddler: it hardly mattered when I got her up and on her bike if I still had to pull Clyde around in the bike trailer regardless. Now that Clementine is a proficient bike rider, though, a tiny, white light shining at the end of the tunnel has crept into my field of vision–one that looks suspiciously like it’s mounted on a pair of handlebars.

Suddenly my memories of the glorious bike trips of my youth all come back to me: Scotland, Cape Cod, the Blue Ridge Parkway–even a six-week tour of Arizona–and with them also comes all the plans I had for bike trips yet to be done–the C & O canal, the Oregon coast, the South of France. Plans that were put on hold once my children came along. And just like that it’s “good-bye mellow hippie Mom” and “hello Peter Piper Pizza pusher.”

And my new mantra? Bike Here Now.
(Update: the Peter Piper Pizza Ploy actually worked–Clyde is off the scooter and on the bike, just in time for Bike to School Day, Thursday, May 15. For more info, go to www.flagstaffbiking.org)

Back when my 11-year-old daughter, Clementine, was still small, my husband and I would often organize impromptu raiding parties into her room at night in order to sneak away excess toys. An average haul would be a few dozen beanie babies or a score or so of Happy Meal toys; a pitiful night would consist of a handful of puzzle pieces, and a really good night would net an entire My Little Pony Dream Castle.

Back then we felt like we had to be sneaky about taking toys away from her, partly because we were afraid of the reaction we’d provoke, but mostly because we felt extremely guilty that she had so many toys in the first place; after all, collectors are not born–they’re made. She would have never had any idea about Barbie or My Little Pony if we hadn’t been the ones to introduce her to them. And even worse–she wouldn’t have had a room that was overflowing with “collections” if we hadn’t been the ones who kept buying new pieces for her. And yet, even though we knew that it was wrong, we found it terribly hard to stop; there was just something so appealing about seeing her little face light up with delight that kept us going back for more. Besides, we’d tell ourselves, what difference did one more little Polly Pocket doll make anyway?

Later, of course, after we realized that we could no longer walk across the floor of her room without hearing ominous crunching noises underfoot, we experienced a profound sense of giver’s remorse, and repented by sneaking back and trying to get rid of as much stuff as possible. In other words: first we’d binge, then we’d purge.

Eventually, time and exhaustion helped us to break free of this vicious cycle; so much so that by the time her little brother, Clyde, came along, we were almost completely immune to any kind of delight whatsoever. In fact, by the time he was three years old we discovered we could pull an unopened Lite Brite set out of his delighted hands and whisk it into the Goodwill bag without a moment’s remorse–and this at his own birthday party, no less. Anything to nip a burgeoning collection–and collector–in the bud.

After we reached that point–after we could cold-heartedly execute toyus receivus interruptus–our midnight raiding parties became a thing of the past, and we began culling the toy herd during daylight hours, in full view of all affected parties–almost like the adults we supposedly were. And, if we ever weakened in our resolve, we always had crunchy floor memories to spur us on. In fact, everything would now be almost perfect on the home-crap front if it wasn’t for one thing: Clyde’s rock collection.

There is no culling Clyde’s rock collection. To cull something, you have to understand its basic attributes: what makes it good, what makes it bad, what makes it common or unique. From there you can go on to weeding out doubles, or inferior specimens, or even broken pieces, but with Clyde’s rock collection, every sample seems to meet those requirements; as far as I (or anyone but Clyde) can tell, they’re all just a bunch of rocks. Not pretty rocks, not interesting rocks–just rocks. In fact, it seems like the only thing that really makes a rock “collectable” to Clyde–the only thing that sets it apart from all the other rocks in the world–is its size and the distance a parent must carry it to get it back to the house.

And so, by quashing all of his other outlets for collecting, we’ve brought ourselves right back to where we started; only this time, instead of hearing ominous crunching sounds underfoot, we’re hearing the sounds of an incipient avalanche. I wonder if it’s too late to get that Lite Brite set back from Goodwill.