mercredi, août 20, 2008

Striving for insight when you are in the midst of a barroom brawl is difficult, if not impossible. So it's not until we pull out of the Eastern Shore camp where we spent three volatile days that I have a chance to ponder what on earth prompted my angelic children (oxymoron?) to act like little devils. When they spent time with other kids at the pool, or on the playground, or around a fire roasting marshmallows, they were a short course in the peaceable kingdom. But in the cabin, or in a restaurant, or in the car-they were constantly nipping at each other's tender skin. He told me I almost flunked seventh grade, the DQ said to me, tears spilling down her 13 year old cheeks. How Mr C was privy to information neither her father or I had, I don't know. I can't help taking her words to heart, he said, when I asked why he let his sister anger him. Odd, though, how when I finally lost it with the two of them and stalked into my room, my 11 year old psychologist told me that, given the time, they knew how to work things out on their own. Take a walk, Mom, suggested Mr C, and calm down. Parenting teenagers is an an amazing combination of melodrama and farce, with occasional periods of delusory quiet. Driving through my foot long grass up to the pumpkin vine snaking across our driveway, I realized that there really is no place like home.

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