I don’t mean to holler and yell like a banshee when my kids get out of line. It just, like, happens.

Usually, I yell after I’ve asked them nicely five times to do something -- like move their crap off the kitchen table or straighten up their rooms or go to sleep already because it’s 10:30 p.m. and I put you in your bed two hours ago and I’m tired, dammit, and I want to give your father some so that I can pass out from exhaustion.

Or I might yell if they start sparring each other like they’re prepping for the next Tyson vs. Holyfield heavyweight fight.

I’ll definitely raise my voice at my kids if they’re defiant. Talking back gets my goat. Pretending you didn’t hear me when I know good and doggone well you did takes me over the edge.

And so I pump up the volume.

This week I will let a strange man into my house when my husband isn't home. I will greet him with heaps upon heaps of kisses and shouts of delight because he will be bearing gifts of mops and sponges and environmentally-friendly cleaning supplies. He is coming over to CLEAN MY HOUSE.

A few weeks ago, an old friend blasted an invitation to all of her Facebook contacts: her green cleaning service was in need of some fresh houses for training purposes. Was anyone interested in housecleaning at a wildly discounted rate? I just happened to spot this message when I was using Phillip's computer and it took me all of .002 seconds to draft a reply. It went something like, "YES PLEASE. HOW ABOUT THIS AFTERNOON?"

I shop at the grocery store, so I have lots of time to contemplate what my life would be like if I were a celebrity mom. I’ve decided I’m against it, and I will tell you why.

1. I would not like to claim the world record for "Celebrity Mom Hiding a Baby Bump for the Longest Time Ever Without Producing a Baby." It seems that every issue of OK! or US Weekly shows a picture of some celebrity on the cover either “hiding” or “showing off” her baby bump. If she’s holding something in front of her abdomen, she’s “hiding.” If she’s walking like a normal person, she’s “showing off.”

It’s not that I hated how I looked, really. It’s just that after a while, it was hard to be judged, and not start co-signing the judgments. Maybe my skin was a little too dark. My hair a little too kinky. My affinity for books and dolls and sewing a little too nerdy. My butt and hips a little too big for a kid my age.

I wasn’t perfect.

Plenty of folks -- mostly adults -- stood at the ready to remind me of this. Picking on kids and their flaws was, like, a thing for the grown-ups in my life. Adult cousins thought nothing of saying I shouldn’t play in the sun because I was “dark enough as it is”; my mom’s grown friends often clucked that the chlorine from the pool would make my hair “even nappier.” One woman, the mother of my best friend, made a point of telling me every time she saw me that I was “getting fat.”

I'm not a great cook. I have a dinnertime repertoire of about four or five dishes, and these I can usually manage not to burn or otherwise destroy. I have a really hard time THINKING of things to cook let alone ACTUALLY COOKING them, so I am proud to tell you that the slow cooker pot roast I tried tonight was a resounding success. The Internet told me I couldn't go wrong with a crockpot, but I hadn't really tested its abilities until tonight when I presented my husband with a steaming platter of meat and potatoes. A few bites later Phillip turned to me and said, "You can make this tomorrow night too." That giant glow you saw out your window at 6:30 p.m. Pacific Time was my thrilled and beaming face.

Laylee’s always making plans. She wants to build things or have Santa or Dad build them. When she describes these plans to me, they usually involve building a house similar to our own only smaller and just for her. Depending on her mood she’ll either want the house outside in the backyard to serve as a clubhouse, over her bed to ensure she never need sleep again at bedtime, out front so she can sell her baked goods out the front window, or in the family room in front of the TV.

When I recently told her to put the “house” on her wishlist, she said, “OH Mom! This isn’t a wish. It’s a Dream Come True.” Do you wanna know what would be my Dream Come True? My Dream Come True would be for everyone in my house to stop being sick all of the all the time. My Dream Come True would be for us all to never be exposed to germs again or mutate in some way that we are impervious to them.

My talk with my mom about menstruation went something like this:

Me: “Mommy? We learned about periods in health class today. The teacher said we should get this kit. It comes with books and pads and stuff.”

My mom: “Okay.”

Uh, huh. That was the end of the conversation. She ordered the kit for me -- it came with three books about puberty and an assortment of pads and tampons -- and when it arrived, she handed it to me and we never talked about periods again.

Here's your context for today's post: Before kids, I was the person rolling her eyes and raising her eyebrows and sighing disapproving sighs around parents who could not control their children. On occasion, I am ashamed to say, I still do this. But Saturday, upon leaving a baby shower hours early in disgrace, I wanted to dive into the nearest confessional to atone for my years of judgment and haughtiness, because I HAVE BECOME THAT PARENT.

It's my fault. I shouldn't have brought the kids, even though I'd been assured numerous times that it was okay. But they woke up too early (is this a problem in anyone else's house? With Jack, especially, if he wakes up too early there is HELL TO PAY for the rest of the day) and the shower didn't start till 11 and I didn't give them lunch beforehand and I didn't bring the right toys or lunch foods and I only brought one sippy cup and I hadn't thought about parking far away and walking on a big street and I neglected to bring the appropriate tranquilizers and OKAY OKAY, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.

We’re into Dan’s second week of paternity leave and I’ve decided that I love being half of a stay-at-home mom. Our relationship and parenting style has come to resemble something like doubles beach ball volleyball minus the teeny bikinis.

I do the breastfeeding and Dan takes over for the belch and diaper change. I sleep in late while he packs the kids’ lunches, gets them dressed, feeds them breakfast, and takes them to school. He takes an afternoon nap while I play a game with Magoo, and then he wakes up in time to get Laylee from the bus stop. He loads the dishwasher and I unload. He sets the table for the food-eaters among us while I feed the baby AGAIN. You get the idea.

Is there anything as powerful as a sick child that can keep a mom running on nothing more than worry, adrenaline, and coffee for days without crashing?

Gabby has been sick for days. The type of sick where you have the doctor on speed dial and know the answering service people on a first-name basis. (Oh, hi, Susan. Jennifer here again!) It is not the type of illness where you give them some ibuprofen, some juice, and send them off to bed. It is the kind of sick where we are watching her around the clock and piggybacking medicines to attempt to keep her fever down. (Which, so far, is not very successful but it's keeping it lower than the danger zone.)

On Wednesday, Gabby began to complain of not feeling very well. By that night she had a 104.7 fever. We medicated her, called the doctor, and got her in to see her pediatrician first thing on Thursday. He said she has the flu and it was most likely the H1N1 version.