I wake at 7:30 to find my eight-year-old sprawled next to me. No idea when she made her way into the bed. I dress quietly, then head downstairs. There I find my fourteen-year-old son, who on a school day would require the Jaws of Life to extract him from bed, wide awake and engrossed in a book. The dogs are sitting in their crate with full bladders.

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When his sister appears a short while later, I suggest that a nice summer routine would be for the teenager to ensure that the two of them have breakfast within an hour of waking up. After confirming that this means it’s his responsibility to assist her as necessary, they manage to get through breakfast with only two minor skirmishes.

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Once I’m sufficiently caffeinated, I agree to play Clue. After one brief, nonsensical game played according to fabricated, ad hoc rules, I read the instructions and we try to follow them. I sit through two games and escalating tensions between the children and don’t shake my leg or grit my teeth even once.

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When I announce that it’s time for a Clue break so that we can perform some “service to family” (my current alternative to “why can’t you pick up all this crap, I am not a maid”), the princess gets that frowny look and it’s not long before she’s swooning with the injustice of it all. To prevent my own meltdown, I offer her the option of practicing the piano instead. While she pounds out some blues, I lightly supervise the excavation of the teen’s room, trying to keep the bite of sarcasm out of the helpful reminders I toss out (“it’s usually better to throw your dirty boxers in the hamper rather than stuffing them in your shirt drawer”, or “generally, when you pull a size tape off a new piece of clothing, you can place it right in the trash instead of first sticking it to your desk”).

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As we finish I receive a call from a neighbor eager to share the latest scandals in Stepford. Both kids sense an opportunity, join forces, and are preparing to embark on a grazing marathon. I hang up and nip that in the bud by insisting they have a proper lunch. Which leads to a nuclear holocaust as the teen insists on having a PBJ despite his allergic sister’s justifiable fear of contamination.

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My energy is flagging. I take refuge in the laundry room and wait for the Academy Award-winning scene to end. God knows why, but I agree to a game of Monopoly when I finish. Just as my blood pressure is stabilizing, I receive a phone call I’ve been expecting, and I head upstairs for some privacy. I’m not gone long when both kids have wandered away from the game they’ve set up on the kitchen table and the dogs are feasting on the money and tokens of a brand new National Parks Monopoly game. The eight-year-old completely loses her mind and the histrionics begin. When she can’t find her brother, who figured that hiding on her would add to the fun, she screams his name, repeatedly, loud enough to shatter glass. I can’t hear, and I’m certain someone is about to call Child Protective Services, so I dive into a closet and bring my call to an abrupt close.

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I fly out of the closet and in my scariest voice I summon the children. I tell them to stand at attention. The princess immediately starts spouting. I tell her brother, always fascinated by my former military service, to explain “standing at attention”, then head to the bathroom to take a few deep breaths. I come out and in a controlled manner read them the riot act. I see that my son, who has my number, is trying hard not to laugh. Knowing that he’ll secretly enjoy it, I tell him to drop and give me ten pushups. I make a disparaging remark about his form, which makes my daughter laugh. I assign her five. Soon the three of us are laughing like hyenas. But I’m standing firm: I gently insist that the princess try to do the five pushups. She crawls across the floor, weeping and moaning, but eventually complies.

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Back in the kitchen, trying to soothe my jangled nerves, the thought crosses my mind that it will soon be time for a relaxing cocktail and some adult conversation. I look at the clock for confirmation of this lovely thought. And it’s just past noon on the first day of summer vacation.