Sandy Slaga

When my kids reached their mid teens, I bade farewell to what I affectionately refer to as The Bitching Hour.

That special time between the kids blasting through the door and the four of us breaking bread. Those special bonding moments at the end of the day when hormones and attitude meet whoever-gets-it-first hunger.

I’m here to witness to the fact that The Bitching Hour lives.

To-wit:

The almost-seventeen year old drags herself through the front door with that perky shoot-to-kill look. She disappears into her room for a few minutes then emerges to bark that she’s going to the Y for a work out. Saints be praised.

She races back and forth, up to her room and down, backpack in tow, zipping and unzipping. I’ve been away from the law for a few years, but my reasoning skills are still keen.

“Can I help you find something?”

The sweet death-star look in her eyes dissuades me.

Seconds later, she calls to me from her room.

“Mmm-ommy?” she croons. “I can’t find my wallet.”

Now at this point, I think it’s reasonable to ask a series of logical wallet questions such as the last sighting, etc.

Wrong. Said questions are unnecessary, redundant and stupid.

Clamped by teeth, my tongue remains firmly in place as I turn and walk.

While she races back to school, I commence a drop and search of her bedroom floor.

Several minute later the phone rings. She’s located the wallet on the bottom of her school locker.

Everything’s there. Except the driver’s license.

The license, I am told, is on her bedroom floor, near the computer.

I return to the floor. Crawling. Swearing. Feeling special.

The phone rings again. It’s the eighteen-year-old.

His life is over. Bowling practice was crappy. Damn lanes. Damn ball. Damn freshman upstart. He’s convinced he won’t make varsity this year.

He needs a mom. I can only manage half a one.

I call the seventeen-year-old to inform her that my search and rescue has not recovered a driver’s license.

“Oh my gawd, Mom. It’s right there! By the computer!”

She returns home and walks upstairs.

“Oh my gawd, Mom. Here it is. I told you!”

“Hannah, I scoured that floor.”

“Oh my gawd, Mom. It was in my garbage can right there by the computer. It was in the trash I had to pick up after Gabbie (the mini Dachshund and boss of the world) dumped it over!”

I spent the rest of The Rhymes-With-Witching Hour with Jack Daniels.