I just returned home from five days away and I’m thrilled to be back with boys. I couldn’t stop hugging them last night and then Ty my youngest, sat on my lap while we watched the finale for Dancing With The Stars, and frankly, my youngest is kind of big to be on my lap. But at eight he still thinks he belongs there and as there’s no one younger to challenge his ‘baby’ status he continues to claim the lap when he needs TLC.

But then it was bed and sleep and alarm early this morning, 6:30 am here being 3:30 am Hawaii time so waking up hurt. And rousing them to action hurt even more. But we got through morning routine without fighting or shouting which is an A+ morning in my book.

I drove Jake to his jr high school and enroute the bulldog barfed in the backseat, missing the leather seat for the carpet side near the door, conveniently coating seat belt, screws, little pieces that are incredibly inaccessible and therefore incredibly difficult to clean.

Returning home I drag out cleaning supplies, clean backseat and carpet and difficult inaccessible area and as I’m cleaning I notice my busy body, control freak neighbor has just chopped a huge limb from my gorgeous new lilac tree and my blood pressure shoots up.

I calm myself, tell myself even hacked, its a beautiful lilac tree and head in house. I stop inside the door to pick up dirty socks in hallway. Then I gather strewn boy shoes–two pairs tennis shoes, one pair flip flops, and one pair cleats. I put breakast dishes in dishwasher, head upstairs, pick up wet towel from bathroom floor, pick up another wet towel from older son’s room, chase dog from younger son’s room where she’s destroying yet another beloved toy. Phone rings. Can’t find phone. Anywhere. Miss call. Still no phone. Pick up empty soda can from bonus room. Pick up dirty plate with old pizza crust and carry downstairs. Pick up scattered newspaper. Pick up yet another dirty sock.

Note somewhere between searching for missing phone and finding yet more dirty white athletic socks that I’ve sighed. Heavily.

The euphoria of returning has gone bye bye. I’m really home, aren’t I?

I didn’t know what to do with my kids for years. They ate my food. They woke me up at horrible hours during the night to tell me they’d peed their bed, vomited somewhere or had a nightmare. They came from school with more work for me than my publishers gave me. They cost money. Lots and lots of money. So what are kids for? What do they do?

And more importantly, what can they do?

I can tell you the last, at least, because I’ve only just discovered some of these purposes, although the smart parents out there already know.

#1 They can wash cars

I didn’t know until now that washing cars was fun for them. It’s not just a job, with some cash potential, its an opportunity for mayhem and destruction which pleases them immensely. They can gather supplies, get a huge bottle of soap, fire up the hose and thoroughly soak each other and maybe just squirt mom a half dozen times, too. The negative is that they miss lots of spots on the car, particularly high up on the top of SUV type vehicles but over all, a great solid activity with a clean chrome finish.

#2 Empty the dishwasher

For some reason emptying the dishwasher is the least offensive household task they can think of…and I’m not sure why. Maybe because its almost instant gratification. Open door, pull out shelves and stack plates, line up glasses, put away silverware and done. Job finished. It’s great, too, because there is already a natural division of labor. (Jake, you do bottom rack and I’ll do top rack. Or, Jake, you do all the glass stuff and I’ll do silverware and plastic stuff.) They also seem to respond really well to the no clean dishes equals no food to eat theory. Hunger is an amazing motivator.

And my personal favorite:

#3 Call Screener

The last actually happened by mistake. I’d call it rudeness in any other circumstance but it worked, so beautifully, that I have to share.

End of March every telemarketer on earth seemed to want my money. UCLA Foundation, USF Fund, Intiman Theatre, 5th Avenue Theatre, Bellevue Unified School District and on and on. Every night for two weeks at least one call wanting cash, some nights two or three. For awhile I pretended to be a babysitter (No, she’s not in right now. She’ll be back in two weeks…) but sometimes the local numbers fooled me and I answered like a normal, friendly person instead. But one evening my son Ty managed the phone while I whipped up dinner. Call after call came, 800 numbers followed by 866 numbers followed by ‘Toll Free Number’ and every time he gave me a prefix I told him, ‘That’s a sales call, ignore.’

The fourth call came and it was a 206 area code, which is Seattle’s area code and I told him to go ahead and answer, but as he picked up, I said to Ty, ‘It better not be someone wanting money.’

Ty, most thoughtfully, greeted the caller with virtually the same words, ‘You better not be wanting money,’ before handing me the phone.

I took the phone from Ty, shoved it between my neck and shoulder and continued stirring at the stove. ‘This is Jane,’ I said.

‘Uh, hi,’ the woman said on the other end, sounding vaguely shaken. ‘Who was that?’

‘My eight year old son,’ I answered. ‘Who is this?’

‘Um, the X Theatre,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk.’

‘You’re calling asking for a donation?’

‘Yes, but never mind. You have a good night. Enjoy your kids. Bye.’ Click. She hung up.

And I don’t think she called again.

I had no idea my children could be so useful.

My oldest son dreams of being a WWE wrestler….you know the likes inspired by Hulk Hogan in the 80’s, the Rock in the 90’s and now John Cena, aka ‘The Marine’ and Bautista and The Undertaker now. How do I know so much about wrestling? It’s a popular form of entertainment in my home at the moment and it’s where I pretty much spent my Valentine’s Day this past February…at Seattle Key Arena watching ‘Friday Night Smackdown’ (even though it was a Wednesday).

I don’t really have a problem with wrestling because it looks pretty fake and its colorful. I rather like all the effort that goes into the various stars’ characters and some of the physical feats are real.

But there are times when the wrestling and the boy energy and male version of communication leaves a woman hurting for a little tenderness.

I just returned from a trip down south and anxious to see my boys, I planned on us going out to dinner just for fun and to have a special night. But Jake couldn’t miss Monday-Night-Whatever-Wrestling-Night-It-Is and thought Subway sandwiches to go was special. My younger son just wanted to surf the net looking for good deals on Pokemon toys. I ate my Subway sandwich standing at the kitchen counter trying to pretend that I was having fun.

I wasn’t a very convincing actress.

Sometimes the wrestling, and the noise, and the boys desire to just slam each other around and be loud and aggressive and physical doesn’t well, work for me. Sometimes I want eye contact and…a conversation. Sometimes I want them to listen to me.

Which happens every other week on Tuesday…in even numbered months, and Fridays in odd numbered months.

I love my boys, I do. But sometimes being a mom feels kind of like you’re waiting for someone to come pick you up for a date. You’ve got all these hopes, sometimes high hopes, sometimes little hopes, but you’ve got hopes and you wait.

And you keep waiting because you hope it’s going to be a good date. Even as you know it might not be successful at all.

At least that’s the kind of mom I am.

Hopeful, waiting, trying not to be disappointed but prepared to dash upstairs to my desk and write fiction–and lots of excellent male dialogue–if reality isn’t quite as warm and fulfilling as I’d like.