Conspiracy Theory

My kids get together on a regular basis and devise an elaborate schedule, with no reconizable patterns, determining which of them will act like a complete idiot, and which will be a model child on any given day.

At least this is what I would believe if I thought they had the capacity to communicate with one another on any level other than grunting, whining, burping, or making sarcastic remarks.

Anyway, I'm certain there's some sort of conspiracy, because this is invariably how it works, and it is precisely calculated to drive me insane. They would rather live in foster care with me in the psych ward, and this is how they're going to bring that to pass. In the past, it's worked out that the angel child will take a whole day, or possibly even two or three days, depending on his or her current energy level. That didn't work--I'm still here, plus I think they're exhausted, so now they're switching around every few hours or so. This may see quick results.

Yesterday, for example, Taylor spent most of the day being absolutely wonderful. She got up on time, did chores without complaint, and didn't cry about anything. She even brought the trash can in from the street without being asked. All unprecedented. Sean and Jared were slated for the fun stuff, or "Operation Crazy Mom," and managed to get me to drive them twenty miles to work at 6:30 a.m., get out of the car without a word of thanks for the ride, and then "forget" to be ready on time when I returned to pick them up, making me quite late for an important meeting. Of course they did not apologize, and got mad when I made them walk home half a block so I could get to my meeting faster.

Then, without any notice, that afternoon Sean got out his list of summer goals and began to work on it, decided to take Mom and Dad's excellent and wise advice about an important decision, and cleared the dinner table without being asked. Taylor (Ms. Hyde) started crying and flipping out about everything, including this reasonable question from Bret: Why are my clean clothes lying all over the laundry room floor? Hysteria ensued.

Once in a while, they'll all be perfect, and at times like those I'm practically foaming at the mouth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. They're good. They're very, very good.

The really unfair thing about the laws of our country is that I will go to jail (or the psych ward) and they will walk free--because they are minors and can't be held responsible for their actions. The only thing that enables me to cling to my sanity is the fact that I have never once actually verbalized to any of them, "I hope you have a kid just like you." But I do. So very desperately. I pray for it daily. Then I will be avenged, as was my mother before me.