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2002-01-03 | 9:08 a.m.

When Jasper gets overtired, he can't sleep. He talks. He cries at the same time, loudly, which makes for a sustained, unintelligible howling drone. Tempers get short. Oaths are taken. Growling ultimatums are issued. And still the wail rises and sweeps through the closed doors of the house with the velocity of an angry poltergeist in a '70s horror flick.

Behind me, the girls are singing a fragment of "All Star" over and over, changing the lyrics each time, until eventually--it doesn't take long--someone works in the P-word.

"No poop!" I say sternly.

On to something else, and again "poop" is worked into the conversation.

"No poop!" I refrain.

They wander out of the room and make their way up to my bedroom and start jumping on my bed, which is another thing they are not allowed to do. But I can't yell at them from here, because Jasper is still sleeping off last night's tantrum. So I must walk upstairs and say, for the thousandth time, "Get off the bed. You're not allowed to jump on the bed."

And then what, child discipline strategist? Then, if I want to make it stick, I must redirect their energy to another assignment, preferably (to my mind) one that involves cleaning. Only my daughters don't know how to clean. All cleaning instruction has swept through the closed doors of their minds like an angry poltergeist in a different '70s horror flick. It remains for me to supervise and reinforce the task at 40-second intervals for the duration of the assignment. And if I don't, my kids will become even bigger assholes than they already are. Isn't that true? Tell me, child discipline strategist. Tell me quick, before they wake Jasper.

I do try to pinpoint the source of my failings as a parent. Usually I chalk it up to selfishness. I assume I wouldn't mind the eternal vigilance required to fashion these feral whelps into well-adjusted adults if I weren't so damn preoccupied my own interests. I think it is wrong to wallow in resentment because you have children, so I try to follow a moral course, which helps explain my (for lack of a better word) schizophrenic parenting style.

Actually, it's not just my parenting style. My whole life is like that. My impulses are base and mindless. Not always, but usually. I do try to correct and redirect myself; try to remind myself of the higher purposes, challenge my own assumptions. And then after all this hard work, I feel self-absorbed for thinking about myself so much.

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