Adolescence has come galloping into our household like the wrathful four horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,”
Viktor Vasnetsov, 1887

If you look closely, you can actually see both my husband and me in the painting above. I’m the one with the horror-stricken saucer-eyes underneath the guy who’s gnawing on my arm. We’re both about to get trampled by the black horse. My husband’s the cowering bearded figure to the right, futilely shielding himself from the white horse, which is about to stomp him into oblivion.

So now that we’ve oriented ourselves, I can continue…Last night my husband and I were standing in the kitchen. Our son sat in the adjoining breakfast room at the kitchen table doing (or rather not doing) his homework. He was raging, raging, raging at every word that came out of our mouths. It was like gently lofting balls into the air and then getting them smashed back at our heads at 100 miles per hour. I was facing my husband with my back turned to our son and mouthed the words, “I don’t think I can take this.”

At this juncture, I have to interrupt my narrative again to tell you a little about my husband. He is a very intelligent man. He wins awards for his brilliant ideas. He earns a living by thinking deep thoughts. And yet sometimes he comes up with ideas so stupid they take my breath away.

Trying to comfort me, he grabbed my shoulders and said reassuringly, “Think of this as a contraction.”

At this, I whisper screamed the only rational thing a mother writhing in pain could say:

“Well then get me an epidural. Where’s my @*$% – ing epidural?!”