I have been a parent for going on 19 years, which means I have read my fair share of books and magazines about how to raise healthy, happy, well-adjusted children. Through the years, in my effort to do a good job as a mom - or at least ensure I don't scar my children for life - I have made it a habit to consult the "experts" to learn the best practices on everything from potty training and bedtime routines to nutrition and discipline strategies.

Today, as I scan the headlines, I'm wondering why I never read an article on how to avoid raising a teenager who one day attempts to murder her mother. Someone should have addressed this issue because, according to the media, it seems to be happening more and more.

Not to me, thank goodness. But still.

No matter how many times I attempt it, I still haven't figured out how to be in two places at one time. My problem isn't that I feel the need to be with every child at every event. I'm long past the guilt and fear that I'll send a message of favoritism to one child while another feels neglected. No, the issue that still plagues me after all this time is something much simpler, much more basic than the instinct to offer maternal love and support.

This issue is transportation.

Never mind cloning myself so I can demonstrate my devotion to each of my offspring by sitting on multiple sets of bleachers, yelling "Go!" or "Way to go!" or "Go faster!" There are plenty of folks who will stand in for me to cheer on my children at any given sporting event.

No, if I could clone myself, it would be for the purpose of creating a fleet of minivans, each containing extra gym clothes, a replacement trombone and a box of cereal and fruit bars.

The blue light from the TV casts a sleepy glow in my bedroom. I climb under the covers, easing my weary shoulders onto the two pillows that provide the perfect angle on which to doze while watching the news. I must be restless because on this night, it takes me almost a full five minutes to nod off. (Like most mothers, I find falling asleep generally isn't a problem. Sleeping through the night? That's another story.)

As I drift off, pundits are talking about Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton's perseverance versus her sense of entitlement. Someone else mentions Sen. Barack Obama's sense of entitlement versus his unstoppable momentum. No one says anything about Sen. John McCain, which in itself may speak to any sense of entitlement he may or may not have. I'm not a pundit, so I wouldn't know.

Anyway, I fall asleep.

When I open the back door, I am greeted by my dog's wagging tail and the unmistakable, pungent scent of overripe bananas. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, knowing fruit flies are swarming in my kitchen like locusts on the prairie.

Ah, home sweet home.

The kitchen is a four-day time capsule. There, squeezed against the wall, is the ironing board, right where I left it. The iron still stands precariously on the end where I set it to cool before it could be put away.

There's a newspaper on the kitchen table. When I left it was Monday's edition; now it's Friday's.

On the island counter sits the bowl of fruit and vegetables I restocked last Sunday, uneaten and in various states of decay. The now-black bananas emit their gaseous odor alongside wrinkled peppers of yellow, red and orange; a shriveled lime that resembles a Hacky Sack; and an avocado covered in cheesy white rot.

If my plane had gone down or I had been snatched away by aliens, I wonder how long it would have taken for someone to notice the rotting food in the middle of the kitchen.

Do you have any idea how far a mother's voice can carry in a designer shoe warehouse with 28-foot ceilings? Far. Really far. All the way from the dress shoes on the back wall of the store, off the vaulted tin ceilings and up to the sandal display near the front doors.

I discovered this as I walked into the store. That's when I heard Prom Mom and her snarky daughter duking it out over a pair of 4-inch platform heels. It was a match worthy of HBO on a Saturday night.

"You called me all the way over to this store to ask my opinion. I'm telling you right now you are not wearing 4-inch heels. Now, if you're going to ignore me and wear what you want to wear anyway, why did you drag me here in the first place?"

"What's your favorite music video?" one of the children at the lunch table asked. A flurry of titles and artists' names was bandied about the sixth-grade section of the cafeteria.

My daughter didn't know about any of them because all of the favorites aired on MTV. Instead, Katie mentioned a music video she had seen on the Disney Channel. After an almost imperceptible pause, the group burst out laughing.

"You are so sheltered," one of the girls taunted.

My friend Jen knows how to get a rise out of me. All she has to do is send an e-mail with a link to a news story about tweens.

Last week, she found an article about the new trend among tween girls to have professional hair treatments such as highlights, lowlights, chemical straighteners and permanent curls. Unlike the home treatments we may have had our moms do for us when we were teens, pre-teenagers today get their moms to plunk down upward of $45 for a salon visit to get streaks of color not found in nature.

According to the salon owner quoted in the article, girls as young as 6 sometimes come in for color streaks in their hair, though she admitted "8 to 12 is more the norm."

If it's 9 p.m. Tuesday, it must be time for dinner. Now if only I had thought to get to the grocery store earlier in the day. Sigh.

The dinnertime challenge around our house isn't just figuring out what to feed the troops — although that's certainly part of it. I have teenagers who still think it's "yucky" to eat tomatoes.

No, like most families, our challenge is to manage our respective schedules in such a way that we're all in the house and hungry at the time I coincidentally serve a hot meal.

If it's 9 p.m. Tuesday, it must be time for dinner. Now if only I had thought to get to the grocery store earlier in the day. Sigh.

The dinnertime challenge around our house isn't just figuring out what to feed the troops — although that's certainly part of it. I have teenagers who still think it's "yucky" to eat tomatoes.

No, like most families, our challenge is to manage our respective schedules in such a way that we're all in the house and hungry at the time I coincidentally serve a hot meal.

A long line of pet owners already waits at the reception desk when I walk into the small-animal clinic, yet the two women behind the counter don't seem to be helping anyone. Instead, one secretary stands next to her chair looking helpless and waiting for direction, while the other one — obviously the alpha secretary — talks into the headset hooked around her ear.

"Raisins?" she asks. "How many?"

Silence. We all wait while the caller on the other end of the phone responds.

"What kind of chocolate?"

More silence. We're gradually getting the picture, knowing glances passing among the dog owners vying for service from the staff.

"It depends on how much milk chocolate he had," she finally says.