That is the best I can hope for when my boys are adults and bringing their future girlfriends/wives home to meet me. They will prepare girlfriend with a brief overview, ‘Mom isn’t like everybody else, but she means well. She has good intentions.’ And then they will open the front door and hug me and introduce me to the beloved and I will be expected to a) behave myself and b) demonstrate madness in a socially acceptable form.

I tell you, it is already a challenge preparing for the future. I am already a fearsome mother. My older son took me on his field trip to Mt. St. Helens a week ago and had to whisper admonishments to me. ‘Ssssh, Mom, not so loud.’ ‘Mom, don’t say that, that’s embarrassing.’ ‘Mom, that’s not cool.’

He reminds me this week that I was the only mother on the bus saying, ‘Girls, sit down. It’s dangerous to be standing up.’ And, ‘Okay, thanks, sweetie pie for your help.’

I look good and then I open my mouth.

And so it is.

Tonight I was at my desk from 8 am until nearly 5 pm without break handling business stuff. I put together press kits, wrote press releases, mailed out party invites, set up two booksignings, assembled a prize package, answered reader mail, worked on party details, booked air travel and more. And then I attended the Eastside RWA chapter meeting for the first time all year and even met with an author friend before hand to discuss promo strategy and then had drinks after with two author friends to discuss plots (Elizabeth Boyle always helps me with plots) and the business.

It was a good night, such a good night that when I came home I decided to cap it all off by being a good mom. I’d feed my son’s new gecko for him. The baby leopard gecko joined us Friday evening and didn’t eat all weekend, not liking the mealworms and waxworms. We returned to Petco Sunday for crickets and baby gecko, hereafter known as the Lizard, broke his fast Sunday night with five tiny crickets.

I do not enjoy feeding itty bitty miniscule crickets to a baby gecko, but I don’t want the baby lizard to die, either. Moving on.

Tonight with the blue violet light shining into the ten gallon tank, I carefully opened the lid on the cricket container to shake a couple crickets into the tank and somehow more than a couple got out, and somehow only some fell into the tank and the rest went hopping away. Onto the dresser. Into the basket of stuffed animals. Across Ty’s bed. I tried to catch a couple but they’re so little and they’re so fast and it’s like trying to catch leaping dust. I gave up. And really, a cricket on the loose isn’t half as disgusting as a snail or slug on the lam. I just won’t tell the boys that I let a bunch of crickets escape. It’s not as if they read my blog.

And anyway, I was only trying to help.

I was just trying to be a good mom.

And more importantly, I had such good intentions.

I love having boys. I love the purity of their energy. Their drive. Their fierce passion to compete, to do, to be. And yet every now and then, when my son Ty fills my purse with sticks and rock gardens, shoves weedy flowers in my pockets, or creates snail houses with my tupperware, I wonder what it would be like to have a shy, pink-cheeked girl who liked dresses and dolls and princess costumes.

Yesterday driving to Sinclair’s for dinner my son Ty, who is buckled into his booster chair in the back seat says, ‘hey, there’s my slug’ in a happy, chirpy voice. I knew Ty was holding his slug house on his lap (a blue small to medium tupperware box with two ventilation holes) and glancing into the rearview mirror I see him holding the tupperware lid with a nice big fat slug in the middle.

It’s not what I want to look at before dinner. I don’t see anything pretty about slugs. They’re long and grayish brown and damp looking and…just really unappealing. But since I haven’t agreed to Ty buying his gecko or newt yet, Ty’s been building his own animal (read bug and slug) habitats with my tupperware and stuff from the gardens. It’s essentially a good, creative idea. And cheap. I’ve lots of soil and pebbles and leaves. And apparently slugs. And Ty can practice his nurturing skills.

So gross but that’s beside the point.

I’m still driving to Sinclair’s when Ty asks, ‘Mom, how do I put the lid back on without smashing Slimey’s eyes?’

Cranking my head around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist I see the slug hovering over the edge of the tupperware lid. Disgusting. I really could use a girl that loves playing with Barbie and cute accessories.

I suggest to Ty that he use a leaf and push Slimey towards the middle of the lid and then close it fast.

This works and Ty carries his Slug House around Sinclair’s garden and finds another slug or two. It’s a magical evening. Sinclair relates. She used to raise snails at one point–had twenty, even let them crawl on her legs (this is *not* the kind of girl I want).

Back at home boys go to bed, Ty says goodnight to Slimey and his pals and leaves Slug House on my antique Irish sideboard in the hall.

This morning after breakfast–some purply pop-tart–Ty goes to check on his pet slugs. I tell him to check on them outside as I don’t want the container to spill inside.

And then Ty shouts, ‘They’re gone, Mom! They’ve vanished. I’m not kidding. I’m not kidding. They’re gone.’

And he brings me the blue tupperware box with plants and dried up leaves that are minus any signs of slug life.

They were there when we went to bed.

Disgusting.

And then a minute later I find one on the kitchen floor, stretched out, creeping along near the pantry. It’s almost the same shade as my hardwood and the bulldog puppy wants to jump on it. I call for Ty who is still lamenting his loss, and he grabs a cereal spoon and starts trying to scoop it up as Jake yells at Ty not to use a spoon we eat with. Slug finally recaptured and restored to Slug House I make Ty look for the others. I look for the others. Jake even looks but we don’t find them.

They’ve vanished.

And I seriously suspect it’s right into my nice plush carpet.