Bear in mind that this is the child who, at the age of four, refused to believe my assertion that letters came in both capital and lowercase varieties. “You’re making that up, mommy!” she said, and would hear no more talk of such foolishness. It took the pressure of an entire class of Kindergartners to convince her.

Suffice it to say that the intervening years have taught me to hang quietly back and allow her to think she’s much smarter than her old mom. So it was with only the slightest degree of surprise that I registered her jacked-up eyebrows and expression of shock during this brief exchange:

Her: And then in my book? This guy? He was the god of dreams? But I don’t remember his name?

Me: Morpheus, honey.

Her, suspiciously: How did you know that? Have you read it?

Me: No sugar, I haven’t read it.

Her: Then how did you know?

I figure at some point she’ll discover that I’m no slouch in the brains department. Perhaps within the next twenty years.

If I’m lucky.

If asked (and quite frequently even when not) I can provide an exhaustive accounting of my feelings pertaining to matters that affect the intimate sphere of my life in any conceivable case.  Or in almost every case, that is, except for the topics of my little ones’ soon-to-be-born sibling and her potential adoptive parents.

We met them several weeks ago for dinner; also in attendance were a knot of social workers (to keep us from engaging in adoption-related fisticuffs, perhaps) and N., hugely pregnant with the child who in bursting into existence has prompted so many questions. “If the baby is going to be his half-sister and her whole sister,” asked my eldest, pointing in turn to her siblings, “what is she going to be to me?” I mumble an answer about everyone being plain old siblings, but this is the least of what baffles me.

I’m hardly the only one asking questions. The woman chosen by N. to raise her child is also struggling. She’s been contacting me from time to time with concerns I am hardly qualified to address. How should I act in the hospital while the baby’s being born? she wants to know. Should I offer to feed and diaper the baby or let N. do everything? And Is it alright for me to act happy around N. or should I keep it under control out of respect for her loss?

The social worker calls with updates and we ask ourselves what (if anything) we can do to encourage N. to take care of herself . Does she have enough healthy food? we wonder. Is she spending her money wisely? Is her partner keeping away from the drugs and violence he’s chosen in the past? The answers we come up with are never very satisfying.

And then I wonder, as I guiltily eavesdrop on the new family’s Facebook messages, why it rankles me so to read references to “our birthmom” or “our new baby,” or to see their friends chime in about how terribly lucky the baby is to be getting adopted by them.

I don’t have answers any more than I know how I feel about all this. I can only hope that in fifteen months none of us will be in this same situation yet again.

She would have been allowed to stay up at least an hour later but for a melt-down triggered by an uncooperative storage box and (more importantly) extreme tiredness. I asked that she lower her voice, fearing that the outburst would awaken her siblings. She declined to comply. “I can’t do it!” she shrieked. “I hate this stupid toy!”

My eyes went wide. As charming as I might have found her company throughout Survivor I could not let such churlish behavior pass unnoticed. “Straight to bed,” I said, and so brusque was my manner that she knew there was no use in trying to protest. As I heard nothing more from her I assumed that exhaustion overcame her the second she pulled up the sheet.

But when I came to bed at midnight I found resting on my pillow a folded square of paper and a pencil. Dear Mom, it began, except that the “o” was in the shape of a heart:

I’m sorry about the way I acted before. I just got so mad with the toy not fitting into the box. I swore an oath to myself that I would never do anything like that ever again. I will try to control my eternal anger with boxes! (Boy I don’t like those things!) Anyway, I really do love that toy (it’s one of my favorite presents!).

Anyway, could you please, please, please, please (taking breath here) please accept my apology. Please. I just felt really guilty. I mean, I get to have my friends over this weekend and then I pitch a HUGE fit over a box? That sounds like I’m a spoiled brat (and I am not, you know it). Anyway, please accept my note, bad humor, and my apology. Please write back on the other side of this sheet. Love you.

PS. I love you.

P.P.S. I guess I was pretty tired.

“Your Very Lucky Mom” I signed my response before tucking it between her clock and tissue box where she’d see it first thing in the morning. To encourage her to continue the never-ending practice of taking responsibility for one’s ill-temper, apologizing, then trying to do better in the future, I bought a small notebook and installed in on a shelf in the hall between our rooms. “Write to me anytime,” I told her, “and I’ll always write back. We can discuss anything you’d like.”

Inch by hard-won inch she matures. There may be hope for this child yet, I think, and her eternal anger with boxes.

No matter how quietly I sneak off or how far away they might be, some scatological sixth sense causes my children to appear upon the bathroom threshold the second I drop trou.

Locking the door doesn’t help. They just talk through it.

“Mommy, we’re making a classroom in your bedroom!” my youngest burbled as I attempted to have a private moment. “We need chairs!” Cheeks flushed and blond hair in a charming disarray, his appearance backed up the thuds and happy squeals I’d been hearing upstairs over the past ten minutes. Nevertheless I had to choke back the urge to yell at him; not because of the interruption of my ablutions (I abandoned that battle long ago) but because as I finished washing my hands I found once again that all the towels had been conveniently stored in a damp heap on the floor.

“Why can’t you ever hang these up after you’re done drying your hands!” It almost slipped out, a scowling rush of mean-spirited words that would have taken the smile off his face as fast as a slap.

I couldn’t, even though similar phrases run through my head all day long. I couldn’t because similar phrases run through my head all day long — and I know how they got there. It’s impossible, I’ve decided, to muzzle entirely the endless voice of criticism that speaks to me all day long.

It tells me while I’m writing that I should be working on websites. It tells me while I’m working on websites that I should be playing with my children. While I’m playing I should be folding laundry. While folding I should be cooking. While cooking, doing home repairs. While peeing, making doctor’s appointments. While bathing, bathing faster. While falling into bed, working more. And at every moment it says I’m not good enough; that I’m a fake, a fraud, a failure.

Given enough time the voice of the parent turns into the voice of the friend, the lover, the boss, the spouse. It turns into the most fervent cheerleader or the harshest critic, and in each case it supplies the tone for every other interaction to come.

Another day I would have shrieked at my son about the towels, but on that day the medicine was working correctly or I’d gotten enough sleep or sufficient orgasms, or perhaps the gods of motherhood were happy with my sacrifices and decided on a whim to give me the energy to do better. “You need chairs?” I asked, and handed him a damp towel at the same time. “We can get you a chair just as soon as you hang this up!”

He did, and we did, and for one more day I kept from passing on that critical voice to him.