Tomorrow I return to work. And here's the weird thing--I'm EXCITED about it. Sick, right? I mean, work is supposed to suck; by definition, it's enforced toil of some unsavory sort, otherwise we'd do it for free. However, my job is just not that awful. And, let's face it, I do it for pretty close to free. (kidding, sort of). I love the people I work with, the students I teach, and the general classroom thing. Paperwork, bureaucracy, and pissy people aside, my job is amazingly cool. I get to talk about things I enjoy almost more than sleeping--reading and writing--and I get to manage my own environment (for the most part). What more could a bookish slacker who doesn't do well with direct authority wish for?

One significant drawback to returning to work, though, is the total destruction of any semblance of domestic order I may have wrought in the last two weeks. Clean kitchen: gone. Tidy living spaces: gone. General sense of order and control in my house: a faint dream. This transformation will occur within seconds of my departure tomorrow morning. The kids will hear my car door slam, crawl out of bed, and proceed to wreak havoc on all of the organization and cleanliness I created, laboriously and with rubber gloves affixed--and they'll probably laugh and whoop while they do so. My good intentions of home-cooked meals and minimal frivolous expenditures will last a little longer, but if the past is any indication, all semblance of organization will cease within a few weeks. I weep for my clean counters already.

How can I stave off the encroachment of disorder and dismay? I can already see it in the alarming sway of the shelves of lovingly folded linens where a boy (unidentified, but probably naked and soaking wet at the time) has yanked the bottom-most towel from the stack. Sadly, there have already been a number of shrill and discordant outbursts in which phrases like, "Dear God, can't you just hang up the towel ONCE?" and "Does anyone else in this house ever pick up a dish?" have figured prominently. It's not something I'm proud of.

My mother, of course, is feeling the irony of all this from her faraway location and probably laughing aloud. This level of obsessive concern about dishes and towels from the girl whose adolescent room was condemned at least weekly by the parental inspector? Such domestic focus from she who never, ever hung up her towel while living in her mother's house? Karma does, after all, exist. And man, does it pack a wallop!

I'm glad to provide my mother (and others, many others) with such amusing irony, but the question remains: how can I maintain the tenuous toehold on household harmony I've gouged by the sweat of my brow and the tenacious wielding of rubber gloves and scrub brush?I feel the approach of anarchy even now...should I worry?

Here we are at the beginning of another fresh, new year. I love the blank calendar and the untainted scent of the early days of January--nothing scratched out or screwed up yet. But we shall not devolve into negativity--this is a NEW YEAR, and it must be relished and honored.

I almost never mope about the past year's lost opportunities or gained pounds; I am a forward-looking girl, always ready to take on the challenge of a clear slate. While I gave up on resolutions years ago, I do enjoy a good planning/dreaming session at the beginning of each year. What will I do better/differently/at all this year? My optimism bubbles up with the champagne of New Year's Eve, and I look past my past foibles to what can only be a better year than the last.

This year, I'm on a spending freeze. No more coffees and magazines bought on a whim, no more I-can't-stand-the-idea-of-cooking fast food meals. This year's economy promises to be grim at best, and our finances can't take one penny's worth of additional strain. No leeway at all. Sadly, anyone who knows me also knows my impulsive nature, which, combined with a deeply ingrained aversion to all financial matters, puts this plan about two steps above excruciating on my personal pain scale. ARgh. But hope springs eternal and all that shit, so I'll just have to bite the f--ing bullet and put away the debit card for the duration.

Perhaps said spending freeze will also result in lost flubber? One can only hope, and the wardrobe gods will be glad, too. The seams have been a-straining lately, and since the budget is locked up tight, no newer, looser, kinder clothes shall be forthcoming. Thus, I shall have to get my therapy elsewhere.

Ah, therapy...whence comes my peace this year? It's been all too absent lately, and I could use some balance in my world. Somehow the boys, beloved as they are, don't seem to help with the peace thing. Husband neither, but that's to be expected. I just remember thinking--as I gazed lovingly and tiredly at my infants and toddlers and preschoolers--"I can't wait until he's older and can be reasonable and helpful." Yeah. Every mother in the world just fell off her chair, laughing hysterically. I now understand the pitying amusement in my mother's expression when I said these misguided and outrageously foolish things.

Teenagers, in my experience, are neither helpful nor reasonable. Every request I make, no matter how involved or simple, is met with a combination-eye-roll-lip-twist-and-tooth-sucking expression that must be some sort of genetic, DNA-level trigger for the visceral urge to smack the teenager in question out of his no-show socks. Unload the dishwasher? Roll-twist-suck. Make your bed? Again with the rts. Help your brother (who is 7, for heaven's sake) make his lunch? AGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

Clearly, another topic for scrutiny this year (all year, daily, hourly) is my search for peace and balance. Between the boys and the husband and the house (don't get me started--see above rant about the dishwasher unloading) and work and my own school, I'm seriously out of control. I think I need therapy...or a really good assistant. Anyone know a housekeeper who's not afraid of boys-only bathrooms and who works for cheap?

truly, completely, utterly, absolutely, irredeemably obsessed. I had a dream about Edward last night, a true first for me. I don't normally dream about fictional characters (or movie stars, or other folks not actually familiar to me). Usually my dreams are populated by vague cardboard-ish figures that I know somehow to be my husband or my brother or my ex-boyfriend or whatever. Not real people--or real-to-me people. Just cutouts that stand for people.

Anyway, I dreamed last night, and Edward was there. *sigh* Perhaps the obsessive reading of the peremptorily released chapters of the ill-fated (say it ain't so, Stephenie!) Midnight Sun, paired simultaneously with an equally obsessive reread of Twilight, altered my subconscious somehow. Or my schoolgirlish excitement about the upcoming release (3 days, people!) of the Twilight movie has pickled my brain. Whatever the cause, Edward has officially taken up residence in my psyche.

Let me clarify something--I have not always been a fan of Edward's. In fact, midway through New Moon, I wanted to commit literary murder. I thought him to be pompous, full of himself, and overbearing. Stubborn and unwilling to admit my frailties I, like Bella, hate to be coddled and protected--and, like Bella, I'm inveterately clumsy and easy to hurt, so I probably need a little buffering from the world's damaging influences. But don't dare TELL ME WHAT TO DO! and heaven forbid that anyone presume to know what's best for me. Anyway, I identify with Bella when Edward leaves her in Eclipse. However, unlike Bella, I do not sink into despondency--I want to hunt him down and chop him into small bits.

All that simply explains my absolute amazement at Edward's nocturnal cameo. I guess I forgave him somewhere along the line--perhaps his willingness to fight the Voluturi? Or maybe his amused (bemused?) indulgence of Bella's horrific baby-naming skills? Whatever...Edward is now my guy. He has taken up residence alongside Mr. Darcy, Harry Potter, and Aragorn in my heart of hearts. The man keeps good company...

So my middle son, the athletic one, the Gemini prone to whiplash-fast mood swings, is 13 today. Something about that number echoes with doom--parents beware, here comes the pain, etc. But it's not as bad as all that; in fact, I'll take 13 over 12 any day. In the last few weeks, my boy has moved beyond most of his seriously obnoxious behaviors (eye rolling, sighing, tantrums of epic proportions over seemingly minor concerns like a cheerful morning greeting). He's almost human these days, almost civilized. He may live to see 14.

Part of his celebration included amassing a gang of several other teenage boys from his various soccer teams and doing what boys do best: goofing around. Soccer game on tv, quickly abandoned for sweaty backyard soccer in the heat of the day, then a lovely rousing round of hide-and-go-seek (during which I hid in my room and read), all lavishly supplied with beverages and delivery pizza and Doritos.

The best part, though, was the pick-up soccer games at the local high school, a summer tradition for players present and past. Watching the younger boys take the field with the older high school- and college-age players, I realized how brave my boy and his friends are, how beautifully confident and willing to take a challenge. Younger by at least two years than the others and standing at least a head shorter than all of them, these new teenagers boldly played the beautiful game with grace and skill, doggedly keeping pace with the game. Of course the more seasoned and developed seniors outstripped the youngsters when they truly turned on the juice, but the kids made some sweet plays of their own.

I got special joy out of watching the whole series of 10-minute gamelets unfold because the young men (and women) were almost all former students of mine--some dating back to my 8th grade class in 2000. My nostalgia for my sweetly awkward middle school darlings combined with my pride in the adults those kids have become added a special glow of...something...to my enjoyment of the athleticism on display. And the greetings from those sweaty guys--now with beards and unbelievably grown-up faces--after the games let me know they were glad to see me, too. It was well worth the din (and smell) of eight teenagers crammed into my truck on the way home.

How the hell did this happen? I promise it's really supposed to be late April--really. Somehow I've missed about 3 weeks of valuable mental time. The last day of school hit me like a day-old fish slapped across my face. Gross, unexpected, truly shocking, and slightly smelly. I'm still trying to wash the feeling out of my mental pores.

And now I've got to figure out what to do with my older kids for the next 10 weeks or so--is it too late for boot camp? I mean, neither of the little angels managed to get a decent GPA between them, and the adolescent sighing and eye rolling is becoming toxic around here. I feel like calling my mother daily to apologize for my own teenage angst: "Thank you for not killing me, Mom! You are a saint with a scotch-and-water." When she cursed me with my own teenagers, I only rolled my eyes and muttered, "What-ev-er" with a long suffering sigh (a self-fulfilling prophecy, that). So I'm stuck with boy adolescents with time on their hands. Argh.

The little one will be so easy: summer camp and hooray! I get to go swimming every day! What could be better? Why do we let them live beyond age 9???

I propose a serious revision to the calendar, something that will take into account the natural slide of memory and attention as we age. We need a holiday or national notification-- something that will serve as a warning of the upcoming summer break--something I can't miss when I'm immersed in some damn project or other (prom? exams? grading 80,000 essays?). But this year, I'll just have to suffer along with my teenagers. Can I whine, too? I guess I'll just practice my Momish responses:

Mo-oooooooo-m, I'm soooooooooooooo bored! Only boring people get bored.

What's there to do? You could clean (or do laundry, or read a book, or walk the dog...).

Can't we just go OUT? Sure--go right outside. It's a beautiful day.

Ohmagod, Mom, why are you so mean? It's my job.

How am I doing??

This one's got it all: love, baseball, teenagers, up-to-date epistolatory modes, even some alternative lifestyles and political activism. Kluger's characters--while a scosh too intelligent and articulate to be believable ninth (or 11th) graders--are witty, vulnerable, courageous, and human. The format isn't new, but the flipping among personal journals, IMs, cell phone calls, emails, and ASL is enough to keep the reader engaged through any plotline or conversation, even the more predictable or less believable variety. Basically, I laughed, I snickered, I got a little misty, and I pulled for the characters to work their ways through the convolutions of adolescence ahead of them. It's hard not to love TC, Ale', Augie, Hucky, and their attendant adults, even when they're all a bit too talented and lucky to be from my block. A great springtime, baseball-season-prep read for anyone who likes happy endings with some witty repartee on the way.