A Household Word
Independence Day

So far my job security seems to be assured. My kids have discovered that it’s easier, faster and a lot more fun to yell "Maaaahhhhmm," than it is to unwrap a new roll of toilet paper, cut their own sandwich or look under the couch for the TV remote all by themselves.

"Maaaahhhhmm!" my 13-year-old daughter screams from her bedroom. I gallop up the stairs, expecting bloodshed and dismemberment, but she hands me a wrinkled shirt and says, "Can you iron this for me?" I remind her as I shoot steam onto her favorite $40 T-shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch that in many countries girls her age are already married and ironing their own shirts as well as the entire wardrobe of their 9-year-old husbands.

"You do it better than me," she says with an endearing smile.

Maybe, but there are so many things that she does so well. She can blow-dry her hair ’til it lies stick straight, do her homework while she listens to the radio, talk to eight friends online and paint her fingernails while eating popcorn. If she only had more practical skills, I might be packing for Bora-Bora already.

My 8-year-old emerges dripping wet from the tub and yells down the stairs.

"Maaaahhhhmm! I need more toys in the tub," he demands.

"You can get them," I say in my most supportive voice.

"No, I can’t. I’m all wet."

"Yes, you can," I assure him.

"No I can’t."

He has all the time in the world to debate and to stand buck naked in the hallway while the water puddles around his feet. He has a lot more time and infinitely more patience than I do. So it’s me who ends up mopping the hallway and fetching plastic WWF figures and a rubber-band-powered submarine from his room as I mentally postpone the trip to Bora-Bora.

My 15-year-old son is self-sufficient in so many ways. He can cook and consume a pound of bacon for his lunch, figure out how to burn a CD from swiped music on the computer, and remove the batteries from our only working flashlight and insert them into his Walkman – all by himself. Yet, he cannot get on his bike and ride across town to a friend’s house if it’s cloudy, more than 72 degrees or if the wind is blowing from the east.

"Maaaahhhhmm," he yelled from the driveway yesterday. "Can you drive me to the high school?"

"It’s two blocks away," I gently reminded him. "It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you walk?"

"I don’t want to be late for the track meet," he said. "I’m running the mile."