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As a parent, I have noticed many contradictions between life as I perceived it to be when I was a child, and life as I now know it to be as an adult. For one, there is the little matter of, despite our catty slighting of her as a “dumb blonde” back when we were children, judging her now by her elegant clothes, fancy cars, extensive stable of Thoroughbreds and vast collection of “dream homes”it is painfully obvious that Barbie was always much cleverer than we gave her credit for–much cleverer, in fact, than we were ourselves. Looking at the evidence, it becomes clear that at least she had enough sense to buy Flagstaff real estate back in the early nineties, when the rest of us were still waiting for the bubble to burst.

Then, of course, there’s the food issue, and the fact that the food we wished most desperately to eat back when we were children–sugar right out of the bowl, McDonald’s three times a day–is now, ironically, the food that would actually be the easiest and cheapest to procure, while the food that we wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot tongue back in our youths–lobster, brie, chanterelles–is now the food that we most desperately wish to be importuned to take “just one bite” of. And don’t even get me started on the fact that now, when we really need it, hardly anyone ever tells us it is time to take a nap.

I think that the biggest contradiction in a parent’s life by far though must be the one surrounding the whole issue of drugs. Why is it that when expectant mothers first arrive at the hospital, when the baby is not even actually present, but, like the forthcoming bill still in some rosy-hued hypothetical state, there are drugs a-plenty: pills, injections, creams–even general anesthesia? In fact, the number of drugs people are not only willing to let you take, but will even go and get for you seems to be endless. What’s more, it’s like the birthing room is a party co-hosted by Kate Moss and Robert Downey, Jr.: after a while you don’t even have to keep asking for more; the good stuff just keeps showing up.

Fast forward a few years, though, when the birthing room seems even more like some delirious Moss/Downey, Jr. party (vaguely remembered and frightfully expensive), and when the baby itself is no longer merely a hypothesis, but a real, live three-year-old capable of opening doors, disabling child-proof locks, and “misunderstanding” the word “no” to mean “not while I’m looking”, and suddenly there are no drugs to be found.

And of course, that’s when you need the drugs: during those dreadfully stark hours between the end of the morning cartoons and the beginning of the afternoon ones (the space between Teletubbies and George Shrinks–the long, dark Charlie Rose Hour of the soul); that’s when you need to open your front door and miraculously find a sympathetic nurse with a tray full of lovely painkillers. Even the sight of an epidural needle would be welcome, as long as it not only numbed your extremities but all ability to hear anything in the whiniest upper registers of the hearing spectrum.

Alas, it will never happen: drugs, like youth, sleeping, and the ability to eat whatever you like and not gain an ounce, are wasted on the young. Barbie obviously knows this, which must be why she has chosen to stay so young despite her forty-odd years of existence. If only I hadn’t been so busy mocking her in my own youth, I might have picked up on this sooner. Who knows? Maybe she would have even let me in on some of her real estate secrets, as well.

My friend Way doesn’t like music. It’s not just that he doesn’t like my music (I’m used to that), or that he doesn’t like “those crazy kids’ music” ( that too), but he doesn’t like any music at all. I know, because in the course of our friendship I have played him nearly every one of the CD’s in my very eclectic CD collection–everything from Desi Arnez to the Butthole Surfers–and, while some of my CD’s have managed to somewhat moderate the pained expression his face assumes every time I hit the “play” button, as long as music of some form is still playing, the look is still there.

In fact, noticing the frequency with which the look appeared was one of the things that made me realize how often it is that I surround myself with music; unfortunately, the other thing that made me realize this was when Clementine started to sing along from the back seat.

To fully comprehend how problematic this is for me you have to understand what kind of music I play when I am in my car; while I am sure that for some people a collection of Beethoven’s sonatas are the perfect accompaniment to a long drive, for me the only thing a driving tape needs to be is fast, and loud. When Clementine was a baby this was not a problem, since the car, to her, was like a giant martini on wheels: a couple of laps around the block and she was out like a light, leaving me free to listen to everything from late ‘70’s punk to an unabridged reading of the Kama Sutra. Now, however, she is nine years old, and has begun to show what seems to me to be a much too keen interest in the songs I am playing, as well as a much too able memory. This was brought home to me only too well when, after only briefly listening to a funky hip-hop style dance mix a friend of mine had brought back for me from Columbia, Clementine turned to me and asked, “Mom, what does ‘don’t need no short-dicked man’ mean?”

I got out of that one by explaining that I didn’t speak Spanish. But the whole incident made me feel as if I had been put on notice: suddenly I realized that nearly every tape I owned had something questionable in it, whether it was the Violent Femmes singing “why can’t I get just one f**k” or Mudhoney singing “touch me I’m sick”. Even a group as innocuous as the Dixie Chicks still sing about murder and adultery.

So what am I to do? I guess I could always listen to the radio, but there are two problems with this: the first is that the caged squirrels that power my car don’t always get around to sending power over to the radio; and the second is that the only station I can stand, The Eagle, (while helpfully obscuring the naughty words; sometimes to the point where a song by a group such as Nine Inch Nails becomes almost unintelligible) has the distressing habit of playing that annoying Flagstaff Insurance jingle, a tune which always makes me want to climb to the top of the nearest tower and start shooting people.

This leaves me with only one hope: that whatever virus or mishap caused Way to dislike music will somehow afflict Clementine, leaving her so disgusted at the mere thought of music that she puts her hands over her ears and hums whenever we get into the car. It could happen: because he is also color-blind, I am thinking that perhaps he was dropped on his head as a child; this means that all I have to do is surreptitiously search his head for the exact location of the flat spot, and then–well, let’s just say I’m only one playground “accident” away from musical freedom.

Ok, I’ll admit it: I’m a little bit crazy when it comes to my Halloween rituals. The decorations must be up by the first week of October; there must be pumpkin soup and pumpkin muffins on Halloween night; and the candy blend must be 90% chocolate and 10% awful sour things that only kids like, with a few spider rings and rubber rats thrown in for good measure. Oh, and recently, there has been one more thing, one more tradition that I have added to my already lengthy Halloween list: a few days after Halloween, usually about the time all the decoration are put back into their boxes, I must freak out and start throwing all of the leftover candy into the trash can.

It’s not what you think: I’m not one of those mothers who only lets their kids have sugar twice a year, or even one of those mothers who carefully doles out one single piece of candy a night for weeks after the big event. And I’m definitely not one of those mothers who stockpiles little toys and prizes for her kids to “buy” with their candy on Halloween night, thereby severely limiting their sugar haul. On the contrary, my philosophy is: you earned it, you eat it. All of it. All you want. All you can hold. All you can keep down. Live it up, is what I like to say.

At least, that’s what I like to say for the first day or two, when everybody is still flush with candy wealth, and the chocolate induced serotonin stream is still flowing strong. That phase, however, never seems to last very long; soon the “good” candy has left everybody’s bags, and before you know it even the “ok”; “pretty good”; and “not so good” supplies are running low. Suddenly, all of the kids start looking at each other like they’re partners in some Sierra Madre gold mine, and the bonds of friendship that had formed so easily back in the heady nights of “M&M’s for everyone” begin to evaporate wispily in the harsh morning light of “Sweet-Tarts for none.” It is remarkably the same problem that most people seem to have with cocaine: there is, at once, too much and never enough of it.

It is when we are there, deep in the throes of the “never enough” stage, when the fighting, the bickering, the squabbling, the accusations, the denials, the trials in absentia, the frontier justice, the looting, and the vigilantism all come to a head, that I finally lose it and start throwing every piece of candy I can get my hands on into the nearest trash can. It wouldn’t be so bad if the candy they were fighting over was worth it, but c’mon: mixing it up over a handful of Bit O’ Honeys, Mary Janes, and Jolly Ranchers? What’s next: arguing over the giblets at Thanksgiving? Agitating to lick the stuffing spoon at Christmas?

Of course, in their defense, it’s not always the B-list candies that they’re fighting over: occasionally, once it’s all been tossed spitefully into the trash can by yours truly, they will see a Twix or a Kit Kat that somehow got overlooked, sitting like a golden nugget amidst the butter wrappers and baloney rinds. It is then, hopefully, that they truly feel the loss that their senseless fighting has wrought.

Nah. But that’s ok, because even if they aren’t learning a valuable lesson about trust and cooperation, then they are still learning a valuable lesson about how new Halloween traditions start: in this case, it’s the one where Mommy and Daddy get to enjoy a delicious post-bedtime treat of chocolate, with just a little sprinkling of coffee grounds and eggs shells on the side.

There are many different types of vegetarians. There’s the type that won’t eat any animal products at all; the type that will eat eggs and dairy, but not fish; and the type that will only eat food that is raw. Then there’s my daughter, Clementine. Clementine has created her own type of vegetarianism, one that is so simple that she should easily be able to follow it for the rest of her life. Clementine is the type of vegetarian that will only eat things that have been breaded, and deep-fried.

I know what you’re thinking: that’s not a vegetarian, that’s a redneck; and it’s true that in her quest to sample the fryers of the world, Clementine has eaten her fair share of meat. (As I commit this public outing of Clementine’s not-quite-so-vegetarian lifestyle, I am irresistibly reminded of the time I saw Michael Stipe of R.E.M. outed in a vegetarian magazine. “ READER ALERT!!!” screamed the headline, “ Michael Stipe seen in Atlanta area grocery store purchasing ROTISSERIE CHICKEN!”).

Perhaps not so coincidentally, it was also chicken that began Clementine’s backslide from “true” vegetarian to “sometime” veggie: she just couldn’t stay away from those chicken strips. Of course, it’s not like she has ever really tried, but, even if she were to give it her best shot she would certainly be doomed to fail, since it is a sad facet of the modern restaurant industry that restaurants without chicken strips on their menus are scarcer than, well, hen’s teeth. Mexican restaurants have them. Chinese restaurants have them. I have even been to a Turkish restaurant that, along with its more traditional fare like broiled sheep’s tongue, had them. So ubiquitous is the chicken strip, in fact, that I have no doubt that if we were to someday travel deep enough into the Amazon to discover some unknown civilization, what we would be served at our welcoming banquet would include–you guessed it–chicken strips. (Alternatively, we ourselves would be served as a course; but even if this were to happen, I am sure that some part of us would be breaded, deep-fried, and presented to the chief’s children as “chicken strips”.)

The “chicken-stripping” of America (and beyond) is detrimental on so many different levels (not the least of which being its deleterious effect on poultry morale), but perhaps its most insidious effect has been its cunning ability to undermine all my efforts at ensuring that my children, at least every now and again, eat a food item that does not appear on a big lit up menu with the letters “Mc” in front of it.

Here was the plan: my husband and I decided that whenever our family took a trip, we would insist on stopping at least once at some place of which there existed only one in the whole world: the diners with velvet oil paintings of Bob Dylan in his born-again Christian years, the truck stops selling row after row of “herbal stimulants”, even the combination BBQ joints/fireworks stands.

In doing this, it was our hope that we would be able to expose our children to a wide variety of foods, from peanut soup to piki bread. Instead, what we exposed them (and ourselves) to is the fact that the chicken strip is everywhere. No sooner would we push past the dusty bead curtain into what looked like some funky Middle Eastern souk than our hopes of diversity would be shattered by Clementine waving away the menu to demand, “chicken strips and fries”, which would, to our great chagrin, then appear.
Eliot said that the world will end not with a bang, but a whimper, but from what I’ve seen, he was only half right: judging by the world’s menus alone, I think it will end with a “cluck, cluck.”

Recently, archaeologists in Europe made an exciting discovery: a two-thousand year old shoe. They were beyond thrilled to make such a find; in fact, they were probably almost as thrilled as the person who lost it would have been to find it two thousand years ago, or rather, almost as thrilled as that person’s mother would have been, because of course it must have been a child who lost it. Who else besides a child can lose one shoe? (Granted, there have been times when, due to celebratory occasions like New year’s Eve, the last day of finals, and finding a ten dollar bill in the pocket of an old pair of jeans, that I have managed to lose both of my shoes on the way home from the bar, but as for losing just one?-never.) No, it takes a certain kind of person to be able to walk home in the snow with only one snow boot on: it takes a child; or maybe it takes my child–I don’t know.

I do know that when I was flipping through a parenting magazine last week I noticed there were not one but two articles on how to keep from losing either one sock or one mitten–there was even an article tucked away in the back pages about how not to lose the sheets in a matching sheet set–but, as far as I could tell, absolutely nothing about how not to lose just one shoe. This would probably explain why my son, Clyde, is often the only child at daycare wearing one flip-flop and one high top sneaker. Now, personally, I considered the day to be a sartorial success if he manages to be wearing one left shoe and one right shoe (extra points for being on the correct feet), but judging from the funny looks he often receives from the other parents, sartorial success might be measured differently in different households.

Of course, that was something I had pretty much figured out long before the “sock-saving” article came along; reading it only confirmed what I had long suspected to be true. For one thing, this article suggested that mothers hang on to “loner” socks for a maximum of three loads of laundry; if the mate didn’t show up in the allotted time frame, then the mother should simply throw the lone wolf sock away. Throw it away? A perfectly good sock with no holes, no foxtails embedded in the cuff, and no coating of funky green fuzz from being stored, wet, in the bottom of a backpack with half a bag of cheetos and a spilled Gatorade for an entire school year? If I had access to a gem such as that I might mount it and hang it above my mantelpiece; I might place it in the cornerstone of the new courthouse as a time capsule; I might even cryogenically freeze it and store it in the same vault with Ted Williams’ head; the one thing I certainly would not do, however, would be to throw it away.

We must live in quite the culture of excess when parenting magazines are seriously suggesting throwing out perfectly good clothes simply because they don’t conform to some arbitrary standard of couture symmetry. I’m sure that the mother 2000 years ago didn’t throw out the remaining shoe when her little cave child came limping home in the snow trailing his wooly mammoth coat on the ground and handing her his two-week old stone tablet announcing that the sign-up meeting for the Sabre Tooth Cubs was tonight.

In fact, I’ll bet she didn’t even get him a new shoe to match the old one; to this day his descendants probably still don’t wear two shoes at a time in his sainted honor. Well, at least that would explain my children.

It is a sad truth that, thanks to my stout Poe genes, I have been on nearly every diet that has ever been invented: I have been on the grapefruit diet, the cabbage soup diet, the low-fat diet, the no yeast diet, the “eat-right-for-your-blood-type” diet, and, of course, the Atkins diet (actually, I’ve been on that one twice–the first time was way back in the1970’s, when it made its original appearance in the form of the Lo-Cal Plate: a naked hamburger patty and a scoop of cottage cheese). I have even been on diets of my own invention: during my freshman year of college, when I still ate in the dining hall, I went on the all-u-can-eat jell-o diet–which, needless to say, not only failed abysmally but also gave me a lifelong dread of brightly colored food ; in retrospect, of course, I now see that this is not an altogether bad dread to have. (Although, to be honest, I never really expected the jell-o diet to work; it was less a diet than a lifestyle choice.)

After my most recent diet ( the Atkins redux), I swore I was off all diets for good–a life vow I managed to keep for several long weeks, right up until the moment I stumbled upon the Ultimate Diet of All Time, the diet that is destined to change the face (and butt) of America: Clementine’s Forgotten Pet Diet.

The rules of this diet are so simple that even Paris Hilton could follow them (and, in fact, looks like she has been doing just that for quite some time now):to achieve optimum results, you simply have to limit yourself to eating only during those rare times when my daughter, Clementine, remembers to feed her pets. What could possibly be easier, or produce more immediate results? In fact, just thinking about how svelte Hermie the hermit crab was (right before he dried out completely and became a desiccated husk) makes me want to go ahead and order my size 2 jeans right now.

Dangerous, you say? Reckless? Mad? Of course, you would say that: genius is always scorned before it is embraced. Besides which: isn’t beauty worth it? And in any case, I’m not completely insane: there will be a system in place to make sure no one actually dies this time (recquiescat in pace, Hermie). Consider, for example, just a few of the advantages that your average dieter has over any one of Clementine’s pets. For one thing, the average dieter is almost certain to be in a much better position to miss a meal than your average Sea Monkey is(or for that matter, your Well Above Average Sea Monkey). For another thing: it’s much easier for a human to pester Clementine to fill up their feed bowl than it was for all the hermit crabs, beta fish, and parakeets that have passed through Clementine’s room(may their souls find peace). In fact, possibly the only creature who is better suited for this task than your typical dieter may be the cat, who very quickly mastered the art of lying on Clementine’s face whenever his food bowl was empty, (a move I am hoping most dieters will wait until they are closer to Kate Moss than Kate Smith to attempt.)

Still, you say, aren’t you worried about the possible health risks of jumping onto the fad diet band wagon, especially one as untested as this one? Pshaw, I reply (I really do). After all, percentage-wise, most of Clementine’s pets haven’t starved to death. Besides, it’s not as if this is a diet that’s really extreme; for that you’d need a diet that involves only eating when Congress gets around to funding African famine relief.

The other day, apparently struck by the fact that my yard, despite its healthy covering of weeds, broken toys and mateless shoes, still did not yet scream “White Trash!”, I got a trampoline. Or rather, as I keep insisting over and over, I borrowed a trampoline from the neighbors down the street who, in a stroke of devious genius that was as impressive as it was unscrupulous, claimed that they were no longer allowed to keep the trampoline in their own yard because of “insurance issues” but who, in reality, are probably at this very moment planning how to spend the windfall they will receive from my insurance company when their children fall off of the damn thing as it sits in my yard. (The Costa Rican beach house brochures on their kitchen counter were my first clue).

On the day of the big move, however, visions of lawyers and home insurance representatives camped out on my front doorstep were still somewhere far off in the distance; our attention was solely focused on how to get our new bouncy addition from yard A to yard B in the fewest possible steps. Despite bringing the mental powers of four adults to bear, however–perhaps because our previous “test” jumping sessions had managed to funnel all of our brains down into our feet–we somehow came to the conclusion that the best way to move the trampoline would be to carry the whole thing intact; since our two yards are only a minuscule 100 feet apart from each other (as the crow flies), this seemed, at first glance, reasonable. However, it did not take us long to realize that, while crows may fly, trampolines do not, and to move this trampoline those minuscule 100 feet would require a circuitous trip through back yard gates and down narrow, tree-lined alleys. To further complicate matters, it turns out that our back gate, having been run into more times than driven through, no longer opens fully. This meant that the entire contraption had to be hoisted above our heads and lifted over a six-foot chain link fence, with the wives (it’s always the wives) walking backwards through a veritable minefield of weed shrouded Tonka trucks the whole time.

It was at that exact moment of peril that something very odd happened: nothing. This was odd because it is usually at moments like those, when I am stuck with my shaking arms over my head and a trampoline on the throat only one unseen dumptruck away that one of my children will decide to thrust a banana under my nose and ask “Can you open this?” In fact, given their previous track records of asking me to wipe their butts while I am up on an extension ladder painting the eaves, or make them a peanut butter sandwich while I am on the toilet (helpfully bringing the bread, peanut butter and a knife all in to me), it seemed like this would’ve been the perfect time for them to ask a question of that sort.

For some reason, however, they did not; perhaps it was because they were so amazed at our ingenuity/stupidity in the field of trampoline transportation, or maybe, having noticed the power lines swaying ominously just inches over the metal-framed trampoline held above our heads, they were savoring the thought of their soon-to-be parentless existence; regardless of the reasons, this time they just stood there with their mouths agape.

Alas, the mysterious truce did not last long: no sooner had I climbed up on top of our new (temporary!) trampoline than Clyde appeared standing next to it, orange in hand; even though when he spoke I was already high into the air on my first jump, I could still clearly hear him as he asked me, “Open?”

(This column was written for my soon-to-be former neighbors, Way and Kim, who are moving this week and who promise to take their trampoline with them. The ‘hood just won’t be the same without you guys.)

Of all the things I just don’t understand about children (and there are quite a few), one of the top contenders has to be the whole underwear thing: I have yet to meet a child who will wear a pair willingly. In fact, I would go so far as to say that, at any given time, your chances of finding a child who is actually wearing underwear is at best 50%. (Come to think of it, if it was socially acceptable to pick up stray children and look in their pants, you could devise some sort of new drinking game that way–“Ok, first person who gets three commandos in a row has to take a drink.”). And even though I think I have heard every possible excuse for underwear avoidance, I am still at a loss to explain this phenomenon. All I can do is report it, and, when I can, try and correct it.

That would explain, on a recent visit to Kohl’s, my instructions to Clementine to “go pick out some new underwear.” Notice I didn’t say, “wait here while I go pick out some new underwear for you,” or even “let’s go pick out some new underwear together,” but rather, in a show of my cool, open-minded, groovy Mom-ness, sent Clementine off to pick out underwear all on her own, without even admonishing her to “make sure and get the cheap kind” or “no High School Musical 2 thongs.” And, when she showed up at the checkout with a package of plain (and cheap!) underwear, I felt vindicated in my new hands-off approach to parenting. Or, at least I did: right up until my next surprise drawer inspection. (That would be dresser drawers; I wasn’t drinking.)

“How come almost all of your new underwear is still in the package?” I asked. “Aren’t you wearing it?”

“They’re too big,” she replied.

Nice try, I thought. Too big: that’s the lamest excuse I’ve heard since–holy crap! You could hold a circus in these things! And it was true: this wasn’t just “big” underwear; it was monstrous underwear; her only hope for ever keeping it up would be to pull it up and over her shoulders a´ la Borat and the “Mankini.”

“What,” I asked, “ever possessed you to buy Anna Nicole Smith-size underwear?” Her only reply was to shrug her shoulders in the 11-year-old’s version of c’est la vie, and casually say, “They don’t put the sizes on the outside of the packages.”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not that hip on all the new marketing practices, and I’ll also cop to buying my own underwear so infrequently that even Bridget Jones would be appalled at the state of my lingerie drawer, but somehow, I seriously doubt that the newest fad is to play Russian Roulette with your undergarments. Can you imagine the suspense? Tens of thousands of people the world over, eagerly tearing into their newest underwear purchase, only to be disappointed again and again. We would have to form “Wedgie Support Groups,” not to mention all sorts of underwear exchange networks–eDrawers, perhaps–both online and in person (“Come to my house Tuesday night for an Underwear Swap!–Sorry, no size 0’s”). And what about the Victoria’s Secret catalog? It would take ages to shoot. (“Damn! Another package of “granny panties.” Hold on girls: I’m sure there’s a thong in here somewhere.”)

The truth, however, is much less interesting: in my bid to be “cool–yet conscientious” I fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book: the old “pick out huge underwear so you don’t have to wear it” trick. What? That’s not in your book? Just as I suspected: my kids are reading an entirely different book.

Now that school is once again back in session, and every minute between violin lessons and soccer practice must be scrupulously accounted for, it is only a matter of time before the playdate season will be upon us; although, in my case, the phrase “playdate” might be a little ambitious: “sobbingdate,” “not sharingdate,” or even “fightingdate” would all be more apt. In fact, playdates with my son, Clyde, are so guaranteed to result in at least one round of tears and recriminations that it is a constant source of amazement to me that we can show up at the park and not be preceded by a girl in a bikini holding up a big sign proclaiming “Round One”.

In all fairness to Clyde, though, I must admit that at least most of the fighting he does is not of the physical variety; even though, in all actuality, this is not such a good thing: at least the physical fights are easy enough to referee (or, if you choose not to act, easy enough to watch: if you like the bum fighting on pay per view, then you’ll love watching a pair of four-year-olds trying to sit on each others’ heads).

No, unfortunately the fighting I’m talking about is usually of the verbal, tormenting variety, the kind that does not make for good TV (unless, of course, you happen to be a big fan of “Mama’s Family”). This is the kind of fighting where every 30 seconds or so one of the playdate participants comes running up to the mothers’ group sobbing about “He called me a jingafoo!” or “She said I don’t know how to play terwickle!” or some other kind of unfathomable nonsense. (One quick note: even though, when the sobbee is asked what exactly a jingafoo is or what terwickle means, their response will always be, “I don’t know”, it will do you absolutely no good to point this out; like the Supreme Court justice who once said he didn’t know the definition of obscenity, but sure as hell knew it when he saw it, a four-year-old might not understand the exact nature of an insult, but he sure as hell can recognize one when he receives it.)

Lately, though, even the obscure verbal taunting has become passe, as Clyde has now gotten old enough to engage in the cruelest form of torment of all: shunning. These days, instead of merely kicking his opponents in the shins, or even calling them made-up and vaguely insulting names, he instead lets fly the biggest playground bomb of them all: “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

This is a particularly effective piece of torment for the simple reason that it always guarantees such a good reaction from everyone present. From the mothers, (most of whom probably last heard this phrase back in high school, right before they found out that the speaker was sleeping with their soon to be ex-boyfriend), there is consternation; from the child thus tormented there is the speedy deflation of the ego; and from the child that says it there is that bright glow of pride that comes from knowing they are the possessor of a weapon of infinite power (at least up until, in a sort of playground MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) it gets turned around and used against them).

Some people will claim that at least at this age the fights are easier to break up and soothe over, but as for me, the sight of a sobbing, heart-broken four-year-old makes me long for the day when they will simply resolve their differences by agreeing to beat each other up behind the high school after last period. At least then they will be the ones that have to negotiate a free moment between violin and soccer.

A few weeks ago, after visiting a local classroom, a friend of mine had this to say about it: “Kelly, you would have hated it.” Not, “I hated it,” or even “Anyone would have hated it,” but that I, in particular, and (I am assuming) no one else, would have hated this classroom. When I asked her why, she explained to me that this teacher’s method for restoring peace and quiet in the classroom was to sing her students a special “quiet time” song.

Ever quick to rush to my own defense, I pointed out that I, too, have been known to use the soothing powers of music to quiet down my children: in fact, just last week I had used the dulcet tones of Alanis Morrisette cranked up to 11 in an effort to establish order between the battling siblings in the back seat. The week before that I had used my favorite Fear tape, and the week before that it was The Pretenders. Whether or not any of these songs actually quieted them down or not I couldn’t say: all I know is that, acoustically wrapped in the screeching voice of my own choosing, I, at least was calm.

Really, I think this may be the best way to soothe a howling child since the advent of “baby whispering”; after all, isn’t not hearing a screaming child practically the same thing as not having one? If you don’t believe me then try it out for yourself, but first, a word of warning is in order: for this system to achieve optimal results, you, yourself, must really like the music you are blaring. It’s kind of the same as the theory about smoke and bars, the one that states that if you’re surrounded by a cloud of your own smoke, then the smoke of others won’t seem so bad. The problem with this theory is that it only holds true for those who smoke to begin with; for others, like myself (who can’t operate a lighter without burning my fingers, let alone successfully inhale an entire cigarette), this defense against indoor air pollution is particularly useless.

And so it with using music to combat back seat noise pollution: you, yourself, must be able to handle the music you are playing before you use it as a protective shield. This means that, while you may be tempted to give them the Manuel Noriega treatment and try to blast them into submission with some truly heinous tape you picked up at a yard sale, you really should reconsider following this particular course of action: after all, these are the same people who grew up singing along with Barney–who’s really going to come out the worst from an extended top-volume playing of Menudo?

If, however, you already own a steady supply of tapes that you love and your children loathe (in my case, that’s the only type of tapes I own), then you’re all set for total front seat domination. One final caveat, though: remember, what goes around comes around, and it won’t be that long until you’re the one cringing in the back seat as their musical selections come blaring out of the stereo. If, knowing this, you decide to take it a little bit easy on them, well, good for you. If, on the other hand, you’re like me, go ahead and use this as one of your last chances to pack in all the retribution you can for the coming years of crimes against musical nature that loom ahead. After all, it could be even worse than you could ever imagine: your children could grow up to like jazz.