Every single day ending in y once in a while, I do something that makes me wonder how it is possible that I have gotten my kids this far in life without some gigantic catastrophe befalling us. Similarly, every time I remind my kids again about their responsibilities as part of this family once in a while, I have a moment where I know I’m doing a good job and they will thank me for this in the end.

You know, after the yelling about how mean and unfair I am stops.

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A few weeks ago, Charlie woke up complaining that his throat hurt. The last two times this fall that his throat had hurt, he had an ear infection (or, actually, two, because why not go all out when you’re sick, right???). I was getting ready to leave for Chicago the next day and Wade was already going to have to juggle a variety of things while I was away, including an emergency dentist visit for Henry, who had lost a crown over the weekend (and wound up needing to have two teeth pulled, but that’s a whole other story). So when Charlie came and laid on the floor in my room and said, “My throat hurts,” and then started to cry, I took a deep breath and called the pediatrician’s office. Because you know, better safe than sorry. Or something.

It turned out that he just had a virus, not strep or an ear infection, but since he had missed school, I told him he couldn’t play baseball that night, which only seemed fair. But then his coach emailed all the parents to say that both of his teams were scheduled to play at the exact same time that night, and since the bigger kids play kid-pitch ball (the little kids play machine pitch) and they need a lot more actual coaching (the little kids mostly need herding) he wouldn’t be there for the little kid game. Immediately after that email came another email from the dad of one of Charlie’s friends, asking if we could take the friend with us to the game because they were scrambling to get everyone where they needed to go that night. I emailed Wade and said, “Look, Charlie isn’t going to play tonight, but you probably need to go to the game and coach, and you can take Michael with you.” Wade emailed back: “We’re short two players — do you think Charlie could play tonight?”

Since Charlie was standing on his head in my office talking nonstop at that point, I said, yes, why not, let him play. Problem solved.

So Charlie played in his game, and got two hits and two outs at first, which was great. And halfway through the game, my friend Ashley’s daughter — who is in Charlie’s class — came and stood in front of me with her hands on her hips and said, “Why wasn’t Charlie at school today?”

“He was sick,” I told her.

“So how come he’s playing baseball now?” she asked.

Uh, good question. When I told Ashley, she laughed and said, “You know Hannah will tell the teacher that tomorrow.” Yep, I said, one more reason to nominate me for Mother of the Year.

After the game, we stayed to watch the end of the big kid game. Charlie sat down next to me and said, “Can I have a hot dog?” No, I said, it’s too late for a hot dog.

And then he said, “But I didn’t have any dinner.” Because you know, who bothers to feed the sick kid before packing him off to the baseball game he technically shouldn’t have played in? Not me, apparently.

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Two weeks ago, I insisted that the kids excavate pick up their rooms, because I was tired of finding clean laundry under the bed and Bionicles all over the floor. This did not go over well, as you might imagine, especially when I informed the boys that from now on, there would be no TV or video games until their rooms were picked up. The end.

Henry informed me, at least ten times in the hour it took us to clean, that none of his friends are required to clean their rooms! Ever! And that he liked all those sharp little Lego pieces on the floor! They made his feet feel good when he walked on them!

I still made him clean up. Because I’m mean like that, and I was positive (having met his friends’ mothers) that everyone else did have to clean their room. Much like I am also positive, despite his claims to the contrary, that “all” of his friends do not have cell phones, credit cards, and Facebook accounts. (He’s in the fourth grade, for god’s sake!)

Yesterday, Ashley brought Henry home from Academic Bowl practice. When they pulled in my driveway, her son was not with them. “I had to drop him off at home,” she told me, “so that he could clean his room.” Her housekeeper had called and said that Killian’s room was such a mess that there was no way she could clean it until he came home and picked up.

“Soooo, the next time Henry tells me that none of his friends ever have to clean their rooms, I’m calling you,” I told her, “and letting you talk to Henry.”

“Glad to do it,” she said.