The other side of the mountain

I had the bad fortune of being fully dressed. That's what crossed my mind, anyway, as I slowly inched my way up the snowy mountain road toward the ski resort, trailing our guide car at a glacial pace. I was trying not to look out over the winter splendor all around me, seeing as how none of it had been spoiled by guardrails.

Had I stayed in my PJs and bare feet, I might still be in the warm, safe, kitchen-centered house we'd rented.

It was already 8 a.m. on the East Coast, yet this sleepy little town in Colorado hadn't even seen a smidgeon of the sun. Wide awake, I had filled myself with caffeine out of habit as I checked and rechecked my watch, anxiously awaiting the moment our hosts -- natural born Mountain Timers -- would rise and shine.

The kids had ski school reservations and a firm 8 a.m. sign-in time. On a holiday week, it would be packed.

Since I was ready and pacing, it only seemed right that I should be the parent who ferries the children to their destination, as well as transports the gear that wouldn't fit in the first carload. 

I tried to be calm as I caught glimpses of the precarious edge, always a little too close to the white line.

And I tried not to think too far ahead. I still had down to look forward to. Maybe the sun would have a chance to clear the road.

Anyway, the worst feeling wasn't the fear of coming back down the mountain, it was having all of our children in this one car, and not making it to the top. 

I could barely hear the cousins' chattering above the sound of my fear. Though I had turned down the radio so I could hear my own thoughts, which were just a mantra of sorts to stay calm.

"Deep breaths," Was the answer I gave to every question the children fired my way. "Will there be a terrain park?"

Deep breaths.

"Will they let us ski together?"

Deep breaths. 

"Can we ski tomorrow if we want?"

Deep breaths.

“Hey! I thought you said I could snowboard!"

Deep. breaths.

The air was thin here -- 10,000 feet above sea level. And it felt like I would never get enough of it.

Keep taking slow, deep breaths. 

We make it to the summit. The parking lot, where I slip into a spot next to our lead car. 

I hadn't wanted to come. Hadn't wanted to be responsible for ski fittings or waiting in lines. But now I didn't want to leave. Now I could handle, overanxious kids, and dropped gloves and forms in triplicate. I could handle anything as long as it meant I didn't have to face the other side of the mountain.

Eventually, though, there would be no one to wait with. The ski school day would begin, and the children would be whisked away. My husband would get his gear and be off to the lift with his brother-in-law.

For a moment, I considered chatting up strangers, seeing if I might wait with them. 

But the air wasn't thin enough to keep me from coming back to my senses. 

I would get down that mountain as slowly and surely as I had climbed it in the first place.

But I might just put on my pajamas the moment I get home.

Snapchats in airplane mode

“When will we get there?”

That's the teenage equivalent of the much maligned toddlerism, “Are we there yet?”

Asked a single time, a parent's answer usually rolls off the tongue with an automatic nonchalance if not genuine excitement.

However, when uttered more than a handful of times over the course of an hour in the cramped confines of the family car after one flight cancellation and a frenetic, still-in-process attempt to navigate to an alternate airport via an unfamiliar road -- in the FREEZING RAIN -- not to mention the pressure of delayed arrivals and the added expense of an overnight stay, my final answer took on a life of its own.

“That iPhone in your hands – the one you haven't released from a death grip since Christmas morning – has other features besides SNAPCHAT! Google Maps for instance."

Strange how a person can so keenly hear hurt feelings amid an otherwise stoney silence.

I will admit I might have handled that better.

Although I won't use as an example what has become known as "The Great ChexMix Meltdown of 2015," during which countless choice words took flight over the noise level surrounding ardently chosen travel snacks. Suffice it to say: if no one wanted the cereal bits, why for the loveofpete didn't we just buy bags of pretzels?

Next time, I vowed, everyone would eat before we left the house. And they would LIKE it. If they had to tote sustenance, they would have the choice of one of the silent fruits or maybe a chewy granola bar that had been previously unwrapped of its noisy cellophane, which would then have been properly disposed of in the correct receptacle -- not the front pocket of my purse. And they would LIKE it. Or they would starve.

As if THAT would ever happen.

The horror! Of course they would starve. No child in the history of modern travel has ever gone a mile beyond their immediate neighborhood before asking when they can expect an arrival, or requiring a handful of fish-shaped crackers and the affirmation that a beverage is available lest they spontaneously dehydrate.

Probably shouldn't admit that I've told my kids the heavily trafficked roads to our destination are traditionally paved with the dust of those poor parched children whose parents didn't plan ahead. 

It's of little consequence, though. My kids are as fluent in sarcasm as they are in English. And since they have come to know me so well over the past decade, they have also begun packing their own provisions.

Sure, the boy will ask me for a candy bar using the magic words as we pass by the airport newsstand, but I know he will conjure a sleeve of saltines from his own carry-on at the gate's waiting area if my response disappoints.

See? I know a little magic, too. Paradoxically, all it requires is less effort.

So when my daughter asks for the twelfth time when we can expect to arrive, I will just shrug my shoulders and suggest she ask the flight attendant.

At least until we get to turn off airplane mode.

Christmas at Arm's Length

I stood in the soft glare of flattering light, holding a garment at arm's length.

It really didn't look like much: a thin gray and aqua "sweatshirt" that bore the name of an entirely different color in a fluid and conspicuous script across its narrow, size-indiscriminate chest.

But it was adorable; I had to admit. It had the undefinable something that would cause it to sell out of all sizes, leaving the desperate to settle for a one-size-up in yellow.

As I squinted my eyes, I wondered if the designers had anticipated the possibility that someone might actually perspire on its anything-but-natural fibers.

But it was one of the only items in the teen fashion catalog in which my teen showed any interest.

And it was $65.

My friend was laughing.

We hadn't been more than a few stores into our annual holiday shopping trip and already it had been an adventure.

See, we hadn't been in the store for an entire minute before a shopkeeper had asked to inspect our bags.

Now, ordinarily, when an alarm goes off and two customers walk into a store at the exact moment two rush out, one might think the extra effort of having store personnel step into the hallway and attempt to stop the fleeing customers would be warranted.

But honestly, I can understand the dilemma. An alarm had sounded, and we were there. The middle-aged shoppers are convenient targets. No one had to chase us down (even if they tried we don't move very fast). And who knows, maybe they'd find some pilfered goods from the bookstore as we walked back through the merchandise control towers.

 ... To the sound of silence.

"Ah ... well," the shop lady said with a smile. "They're stealing clothes they can't even wear."

I wanted to commiserate with the woman whose facial expression had softened toward me now that I had proved my trustworthiness with a security sashay and authenticated register tapes.

But I found myself holding her at arm's length, too.

Instead, I just held out my arm with the potential purchase I was considering - a garment that would amount to four-and-a-half hours of work in American dollars - and asked a simple question to no one in particular.

"Do you know what this is?"

My friend answered with a question of her own.

"Highway robbery?"

It was true. And I couldn't deny it.

Spending the kids' college tuition on single-use clothing was as insidious as spending it on the limited edition peppermint-flavored single-serve coffee pods only available for the holidays.

And yet, that very morning, I had stood zombie-like in my kitchen, popping two of these festive pods out of the caffeine convenience machine and into the trash, where they will remain a full thousand years after I have decomposed.

I do not feel good about this.

'Tis the season.

I put the hanger back on the rack.

The good of holiday giving happens elsewhere.

It happens at the children's holiday concerts. The rediscovery of family heirlooms unwrapped of their tissue paper and hung on a tree. They are found in our stories and our recipes shared around a table. They are in our memories and the good we will do for others.

And they may go unthanked.

We may be in need this holiday season.

But we are not in need of stuff.

Thirteen, our lucky number

I knew the moment I sat down that I had made a mistake. Throughout the day I had gone from one task to another without much thought or hesitation, so I hadn't even begun to calculate my "fatigue" level against my "tasks left to accomplish" ratio when I absently plopped down in an armchair by the fire.

The cake - now in the oven - would be safe for at least 30 minutes.

Almost immediately I felt my eyelids get heavy. They seemed heavier still with every effort to fight sleep.

It probably didn't help that I had grabbed a blanket from the couch and had curled up in the chair, a warm beverage cooling on a table, sadly, beyond a comfortable reach.

I could barely keep my eyes open now, so I stopped trying. Maybe I'll just sleep a bit, I reasoned, as the din of homework completion and meal preparations clanged against one another in perfect disharmony before fading in a new picture that has been dancing around in my sub-conscience, just waiting for these soul curtains to drop.

A few minutes of rest, that's all I need ...

A few minutes ...

Ah ... there she is.

Ittybit.

Born during a snowstorm, a week from Christmas. All Six pounds, two ounces of her. Already trying to stand up.

The nursing staff will share the offerings we didn't get a chance to schlep to the cookie exchange: six dozen chocolate drizzled shortbreads.

The minutes seem suspended in slow motion as the hours tick by.

The winter turns into a spiral of springs and summers before fall makes its way toward winter again. I can't tell you whether I bought stamps last week or the week before, but I remember the faces of the maternity nurses in crisp detail.

Their smiles. Always their smiles ... even when I couldn't find mine.

These things rarely go as planned. You know this, but you don't really understand. Not until you experience this strange world.

A door opens, and a person arrives. A baby cries. The La-la-la sound of hunger. Someone has to tell you what it means.

One only gains fluency in this neonatal language through immersion.

In only a year or two, I will have adapted enough to translate for strangers.

It is a living language, after all.

So many times I have gotten it wrong.

Up. Down. No. Yes. Faster. Slower. Go. Stop.

How many times have I reached out my arms? How many times has she pushed them away? Too many to count, starting with an emphatic: "My do it!"

How many times had I not reached out? She can tell you; she's keeping track: "You're never on my side! You don't understand anything."

She's wrong ... but she's also right.

In the place of understanding, I count to ten: I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you ... I love you.

Add one for every year after.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Thirteen. Our lucky number. Or so we hope.

Do you hear that buzz? Hit snooze. Hit snooze!

But it's too late.

The cake is done. The birthday girl taking it out of the oven herself.

It's not a dream. The edges are too sharp. The lights - all LED and compact fluorescent - blur nothing.

I am wide awake now, but I still can't shuffle this feeling into chronological order. It just doesn't make sense.

She wasn't born yesterday. It just seems that way.

Secret war

To make way for Christmas, my husband finally scraped the pumpkin guts from the front porch and tossed them into the compost heap.

After he dusted his hands and rested them on his hips for a moment, he called for me. No doubt to gloat about his major accomplishment.

I didn't quite hear him. On purpose.

We're in a war, he and I.

A war with battle lines clearly drawn over “His and Hers” chores.

What? “What is that,” you wonder?

I can hear my friendly feminists out there choking on their free range, ethically grown, non-GMO and rainforest safe coffee.

Not to worry. It's not as if our roles in this household fall entirely along gender lines:

He cooks; I clean*.

*Unless his mother is coming by for a visit, and then he cleans.

I mow the lawn; he fishes dead things from the pool filter.**

**Unless the dead thing is a snake, and then he gets one of the kids to do it. (Snakes scare him).

I rake the lawn of its leaves, eventually; He cleans them out of the gutters … ***

***Oh wait! No, he doesn't. He had the fancy leaf-repelling gutter tops installed so he wouldn't have to climb that ladder. Genius!

Let's just say whatever each of us brings to this marriage -- be it videos we borrow from the library or orange gourds we hack apart at Halloween -- we are individually responsible for the disposal of said item before its expiration date has expired.

Rarely does this happen.

Shocking, I know.

This stalemate of a rigid job description is why our lawn is often shaggier than the neighbor's; why our Pumpkins often melt into a mushy puddle before New Year's; and why our Christmas trees often linger around in various states of needle distress until St. Patrick's Day.

Basically … we're lazy.

And easily distracted.

It's not as if I want the house to look like a tornado cycloned through the first floor. It's just that I have ten minutes before I have to leave the house, and emptying the dishwasher or folding laundry better fits into that time window. After all, the snowstorm of paper bits forming a second carpet on the floor is not my doing. The resident fake snowflake fairy, who has watched the movie “Elf” at least four times this week, will have to tackle her flurry's winter fallout. Eventually.

But I digress.

The real nature of our troubles in Toyland, was that I had asked him to put up the Christmas Lights, a chore we only adopted last year when an As Seen On TV product – primarily a Christmas-in-a-Can-Light -- made climbing ladders and staple gunning your thumb to the shingles a near impossibility.

“Putting up the lights,” therefore, entails finding two extension cords and plugging them into an outdoor electricity source.

I aim the can lights and dust my hands.

But, no ... My husband had to get fancy.

He had to “Go the Extra Mile” by taking a couple of strings of mismatched Light Emitting Diodes he found in an old box and draping them under the porch roof. Making sure to point out to the neighbors that not only are we lazy, but we probably ate paste when we were in kindergarten. Most likely the toxic kind.

“So, what do you think?” he asked when he had finished my task.

“I think it looks like this should be my job next year.”

“That's what I thought, too.”

Cat meet bag

The mind is such an impressionable thing.

It leads you places you probably shouldn't visit as easily as it takes you on a hearty, after-dinner constitutional with friends. Which is where my mind started to wander.

Right away you'll want to stop me. 

But you can not. 

Our houseguest wasn't imbibing. She had politely refused the wine with dinner and the cocktails at brunch. She had curbed other things, too.

Like caffeine and sweets and soft cheeses.

In addition to the fancy foods she had procured to add to the fancy meals we'd planned over the course of this glorious three-day weekend, she had brought her own herbal tea, too. She didn't want to deplete my store.

I had noticed and disregarded the information - or so I thought. 

I knew enough to stop myself. The light at the end of this tunnel could be nothing other than a train.

We are, after all, of a certain age, with a certain amount of relief that our children can be trusted alone for the time it takes to complete an evening stroll. 

Such "evidence" therefore is no longer self-evident.

I wasn't going there.

We joked about our lives being perfect now that we are older and wiser, and now that our kids can make their own peanut butter sandwiches.

And we joked about how our lives could only be more perfect had we the forethought to adopt the right cat; instead of harboring the one that shreds our couch, claws our walls, spills the water bowl and terrorizes any and all guests while they are sleeping.

I even went as far as to virtually prank them with a photo of the aforementioned feline, who I happened to catch as she made herself cozy in their open luggage, the photo of which I uploaded to Instagram as our friends were packing their car.

For whatever reason, the crazy, hair-brained notion managed to worm its way into my head long after we had said our goodbyes and had waved at their fading taillights from the porch in our stockinged feet. 

My reason, apparently, was exhaustion and its proximity to the twilight between sleep and standing.

I had climbed into bed, but hadn't closed my eyes, when my husband - his face illuminated by the blue-light of his cellphone - made what seemed like an announcement:

"The cat is out of the bag."

I looked over his shoulder at his phone to see the Facebook profile of the friends who had just spent the weekend. 

My mind churned with fuzzy recollections. Snippets of conversations returned to form new understandings. A little envy reared its shrunken head.

Somehow I fell asleep believing it all amounted to the pitter patter of little feet.

Of course, when I awoke the next morning it felt as if I hadn't slept. 

I went for a run to clear the brain fog, and then for coffee at the shops.

The idea settled in that a new little member of our extended family would be arriving, even though the due date as of this moment was still uncertain.

Later on, at dinner, I mentioned it in passing. Or, more specifically, I mentioned my twinge of jealousy that our newborn days were past us while our friends' were beginning again.

"What ..." roared each member of my family in unison, though my husband finished the sentence, "ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

I stammered. His disbelieving voice had instantly cast doubt on all my thoughts for the past 24 hours.

"I thought you told me last night that she'd made an announcement on Facebook. You said 'The cat was out of the bag'."

"I said that, but I was being literal. It was their bag, but it was your cat."

Tiny chairs

Why were we nervous? It's not as if this had come out of the blue. We'd had the appointment for months. A calendar date circled in red with a regimented time we'd have to keep to the second if we wanted to be considered good at our jobs. 

"PTC ...7:20 to 7:40."

Parent/Teacher Conference. A perfunctory thing every zoo-keeping adult looks forward to the way they anticipate creating wills ... or marital therapy ... only this task you can't exactly put off.

I checked the clock. 5:04. We had plenty of time. The kids had already eaten and done their homework. They were now fully immersed in their electronic surroundings. 

We would stop for dinner first. Have drinks.

I was dressed casually, yet I had been careful to choose shoes that clicked when I walked. Which, at this particular moment, as I waited for my husband to get showered and changed, sounded like I was pacing with exclamation points.

What would they say? 

I'd seen his grades already. I knew he was perfectly average, though his handwriting suggests he'd make an excellent doctor. 

It's what we don't know that worries us.

Does he make good use of time?

Is he kind? Polite?

Are people kind to him?

What will they say that could burst this bubble around us?

You can't stop yourself from wondering.

Our boy isn't exactly like all the others. Not that I would complain.

He still wears pajama-like pants and enormous shoes. His odd sense of humor and dry wit stand out. He can talk to strangers. And does. All the time.

"Do you know that Google was named after a googillion? Larger than a googol,  which is 10 with a hundred zeros, a Googillion is the largest unknown  number in the universe."

Of course, I didn't believe him.

Numbers are finite. How could one be "The Largest?"

And of course, a fact check via Google search usually deems his non-sequiturs 'Mostly True.'

His teachers will find this out about him, too. His knowledge potential is vast but often arbitrarily applied.

Most of them have told me it's refreshing to have a child who is willing to be wrong, even if he does sound convincing enough to sway the rest of the class.

They also don't always see what we see. A boy who can be emotional in the moment but resilient in the aftermath. A kid who does life his own way, on his own terms, smiling as much as he can.

Then again, his parents aren't like most parents; I said to myself as I perched atop a tiny (but tall) chair at the end of the bar.

I had ordered the spaetzle and a local pilsner. My husband had ordered a bratwurst and cider.

When the waitress asked what's the occasion, we shrugged our shoulders and admitted we had time to kill before a meeting with teachers.

She wished she'd thought of that when her kids were coming up.

“That would have made me more relaxed,” she said with a grin.

If you have to sit in a tiny chair, you might as well get comfortable first.

Keeping your wits about you

“Wrong answer!”

“Wrong answer?”

“Wrong. Answer.”

My blood began to boil.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized I was being grilled. Until THAT moment I thought I was merely stating my thoughts on an admittedly controversial topic and using facts widely accessible in the tranquility of my own home, using my own computer, through the magic of the World Wide Web. Mind you, some of the facts I had hand selected, unlike my adversary's, did not entirely support my claim. I didn't care … surely my argumentative friend would see the larger picture.

Nope. “You've been schooled!”

I could almost hear the whistle that leads to the silence that leads to the explosion.

“And you just proved my point … Lol Lol LOL LOL LOL!”

The Facebook fry-o-later has a tendency to do this to a person.

We toast our ideas, lightly on one side at first, and then walk away from the stove.

When we return, the whole kitchen is on fire.

It's not easy in this day and age to pick our battles.

As I took a deep breath and tried to gather my wits, I couldn't help but think about what really mattered.

It certainly wasn't this argument. Our lives as we know them don't hinge on whether you win a cyber spat with me. It may not even matter if we win and lose graciously, though this higher point is something we should all probably strive to achieve whenever we can.

But on what do our lives hinge?

I had nothing.

Ok … well, not nothing: We all count our chickens and eggs and relative humor on a regular basis in the grand scheme of things, don't we? This week we'll even count the roasted turkeys and slices of nut-meat pies as we hold hands for a blessing around our over-stuffed tables.

We will feel warmth for all who are with us, and nostalgia those who are not.

We will try to hold onto this feeling, and wish it could linger past the moment the last plate is washed and put away. But we will feel the tug of disappointment and know this feeling is just a random visitor.

Like a warm memory.

And that's when she came to me.

A beloved teacher … A slender-framed woman with cottony hair and prim woolen suits. Her name was Mrs. Burgess, an art teacher who taught more than contour and perspective. She was MY art teacher, for those who loved her took possession of her.

And sadly … we also mocked her. Twisting her name to resemble the white pasty substances we'd some day have to wash off our cars. These taunts would grow louder each time she ignored another tasteless jibe.

Kids branded her a doddery old woman.

Honestly … I didn't know what to make of her when I was 15.

How could she let it go? Did she not hear the mean words? The stupid chant? Did she not care that she was being ridiculed?

By the time I was 18 and graduation, I realized that she didn't care about that. Not one bit.

I had been sitting in her class, and one of my friends called me a name. In jest, for sure, but still unpleasant.

She rebuked the girl and told her she wouldn't tolerate that treatment of her students. Even if they were friends.

And then I realized her brilliance in defending me and my ignorance in not defending her. That was the day I learned that there never just One Thing. There is always Everything.

And we must pick our battles wisely.

Pass the cookies, skip the Kool-Aid

A sheen of perspiration gathered at the backs of my knees. My forehead was clammy. I had changed clothes three times that morning. First, I extracted my mother's favorite circa 1965 purple cashmere sweater from a drawer and separated it from its protective tissue-paper shell.

I wanted to wear something of hers to the polls but didn't want to damage the sweater with my nerves and their tendency to make a mess of things. 

Next, I tried on a white summer tunic and twill pants, a nod to Susan B. Anthony. 

Too obvious. And the sleeves cut into me uncomfortably when I layered on a trench coat. I had spent long enough feeling uncomfortable.

Instead, I settled on a pair of bright red slacks and a dark gray sweatshirt in which I usually sleep.  I draped two child-made necklaces around my neckline and pulled on a pair of boots. Fashionable ones that don't hurt when I walk in them.

It was a beautiful day. We'd take full advantage of it and walk, as a family, the half-mile to our polling place. 

We had it all mapped out. It never occurred to me we'd get lost.

It started to fall apart before we even got out of the front door.

I could tell my oldest was sullen. She wore a frown that has become increasingly familiar. It is not entirely concealed by a curtain of hair and the edge of shirt collar, which she had pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and which she now holds in front of her chin where a scarf might be. 

The girl, who is one month shy of officially residing in Teenager-land, was already gaining distance as she took off walking. Still, she told me exactly what she thought of the outing.

I was not only an embarrassment with my date-night clothes and chirpy demeanor as I announced history in the making. I was out of touch with the youth of today. And worse. I was a hypocrite. 

"You think you know everything, but you don't. You're voting for Her just because she's a woman not because she's the best choice. You are the one who is sexist."

It wasn't true. I wasn't a lesser of two evils voter. But I didn't want to argue that point in the street. I wanted to pretend my daughter understood and shared my brand of feminism. But she didn't. 

I caught up with her and told her to go home. 

I wasn't mad. How could I be mad? I know she has no idea what it's like to be dealt five cards in a game of seven card stud. But I didn't want her hovering over me in this moment with her dark cloud either.

It was as if she could vote. She didn't need to be there, watching her parents fill in circles on a sheet of paper and feed it to a machine.

 "If you are going to be angry at me, do it on your own. This election is important to us. If you don't approve, you are free to go."

But she didn't leave. 

She stood silently next to her father. Looking no more or less grim than any other face in the room.

It was unsettling. 

She apologized when we returned home. As did I. We didn't belabor the points, just moved on with the bullet points of the rest of our day.

Errands

Chores

Homework

Dinner

Bedtime

But in the morning, she couldn't quite believe the news I had stayed up all night practicing to explain:

"We are disappointed. But it will okay. ...

We just need to breathe. Inhale kindness, exhale service."

She didn't need me to say that, of course. It is already her mantra. 

"I'm not worried," she told me when she came home from school.  "Even in my school, Clinton won the popular vote. The one Trump supporter in my class celebrated by making seven dozen cookies to hand out to everyone. We'll be OK. "

It's a start.

"I might have eaten the cookie, mom, but I won't drink the Kool-Aid."

Say Anything

Say anything.


I dare you. Talk about politics. Science. Economics. Interpersonal relationships. Education. Taxes. Feminism. Racism. Ageism.

Anything.

Don't forget the small stuff: the icebreakers and one-off conversations.

Mention the level of rainfall or the size of the apple crop. Say you think the weather is lovely this time of year or that the fall colors have been majestic, and watch as my 12-year-old wizens her face and disagrees.

Any little thing you say aloud will elicit its equal and opposite reaction at an even higher decibel level.

It's practically her job.

Oh, and by the way, that's not blue I'm wearing. It's more of a green-hued gray to be precise.

But I'm not bitter.

I realize that she is waking up; stretching her legs; and finding that cold, hard floor under her feet smarts a little when she presses the whole of her weight against it first thing in the morning.

It's not easy growing up.

And it can feel like the world is against you.

Everyone makes mistakes. Not enough folks apologize.

Which is why at dinner we are now treated to long recitations of misgivings and micro-aggressions that are weighing on the psyches of middle schoolers everywhere.

Especially hers.

Teachers are the worst. They just assume things and move on. Mocking as they go. It's so unfair.

Even when they are wrong, they don't apologize. It's dispiriting.

Of course, she doesn't want me to agree. Or disagree. Or say anything.

I can't possibly understand …

And she already knows what I'm going to say.

“Life isn't always fair.”

Adults don't know everything. They make mistakes. They don't always own up. And, sadly, you don't always win the argument because you happen to be correct.

“You never take my side.”

“I am always on your side, but being on your side doesn't mean it's always going to be comfortable. Like right now, you are like a thousand degrees of fire-spitting rage standing next to me, an arguably dried up old straw of human. My job is to hose you down, so you don't light me and everything around us on fire.”

Not a comfortable position, I might add.

She, understandably, stomps up to her room, where she slams the door and turns up the volume of her electronic thing-ama-whats.

Her father wonders where she gets it from, giving me side eye and half-laughing about our own arguments over which of my word choices – “Watch out” or “Look out” -- would imply operator blame since it was so clearly the pedestrian's fault for lurking in a blind spot.

"Just let her cool off," I tell him telepathically. "Don't go upstairs."

He goes up to talk to her.

More raised voices. More slammed doors.

Each of them blaming the other: "You don't understand!"

"No, YOU don't understand. I'm just trying to help! "

I realize she comes by this naturally. It's part of her genetic code.

All the huffing and puffing and stomping around isn't something she invented. Somebody else wrote that play she's just the most recent performer in our house to be cast in the title role.

“Do you understand?” he asks me upon his return from the circle of hell that is an unhappy middle schooler's bedroom.

Of course, I understand.

I just can't say anything that will change it.