Get a Life. Oh, wait, I have one.

There's something about a child asking the same question over and over and over that gets you to finally spit out something that's truthful but meant to be withheld.

"Why do I have to come with you to get your nails done," my oldest child moaned for what had to have been the eighth time during our 15-minute car ride to the salon. "Why do you have to get your nails done at all?"

I could have zipped my lip for the remaining two or three minutes in the car, but I'd had it with the badgering. It was time for Mom to get out her soapbox and start preaching.

"I spend most of my day taking care of you guys, driving you to practices and games, helping you with homework and making you breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's almost always about you guys. Some women get their nails done once a month and get regular facials and massages, and I don't. I don't have the time to do those things."

"Well, that's their problem if they don't have lives and you do," was my daughter's response.

That certainly made me pause.

I never considered that I was the one with the life. Afterall, my days are spent gassing up the SUV; taking one child to swimming practice, another to a baseball game and another to horseback riding lessons; gassing up again; taking children to various playdates; making dinner; cleaning up the kitchen; preparing snacks even after it was announced that the kitchen was closed; and complaining about what little gas is left in the tank at the end of the day.

But that's all about their lives, isn't it? Where in that scenario does it mention anything about my life? The hair and nail appointments, the spa packages, the weekend trips with old friends, the three-hour workout sessions with a trainer who promises to make me look like J-Lo in less than 30 days? Where's my life?

That's when a pre-teenager with the wisdom of a 72-year-old grandmother steps in to knock some sense into you:

"This is your life!"

In the world of a "selfless" mother, a bit of "poor me" whining sometimes emerges. When you are so busy doing for others, you can't help but wonder what you could be doing for yourself. What good shape I'd be in, how well-rested I'd feel, how smashing my wardrobe would be, if only life were more about "me."

Then you're faced with the stunning realization that this is what you chose. That the salon visits a dozen or more years ago somehow felt hollow because something was missing. That you weren't in the best of shape even when every minute of the day was yours. That you'd much rather have a closet full of last year's clothing than a house without chirping young voices and unexpected hugs.

And so I still got my nails done, but afterward my traveling companion was treated to a frozen yogurt. Because she works hard at school and at practices and at being a good person. And sometimes she makes sacrifices, too, like tagging along on her mothers's once-in-a-blue-moon manicure appointment.

In other words, we both have a life. And it was only fitting that we celebrated.

Now we're all in the doghouse

Don't you hate defensive parents? The only thing worse might be defensive dog owners.

They refuse to believe that their little pooch could do anything wrong. And even if they have proof, they still think it wasn't poor Frisky's fault. It must have been that mean old poodle or--even more likely--the mean old poodle's mean owner!

You see these over-protective masters of canines walking down the street with Samson trotting regally beside his proud owner or driving in the car with Flopsy perched firmly on her owner's lap and coming dangerously close to driving the car herself. You roll your eyes, move to the other side of the street and mutter under your breath how ridiculous they look. You think these types of owners should have to pass some kind of sanity test before they are allowed to take home a dog.

And then you become one.

Even if you don't think you're a defensive, over-protective dog owner, there comes a time when your dog's behavior or intelligence is questioned, and, suddenly, Rover is as precious to you as the three children you gave birth to.

Before I confess to my personal experience on this subject, let me just say that Sidney, our beloved border collie/lab is the sweetest dog that has ever lived! She wouldn't hurt a fly. Really! All she wants to do is be near people and other dogs. The worst thing she could do to someone is lick his face raw.

But she's a great protector dog, too! The mail carrier, the lawn crew next door, even the elderly nuns who venture outside the convent across the street from our house rouse her "I'm-in-charge" instincts. You can't be too careful of anyone, she seems to say with each ear-piercing bark she belches out of her delicate little mouth--not the same mailman who's been coming to the house six days a week for the last six years or the nun across the street who looks so sweet you want to dash across traffic and invite her over for coffee cake. As annoying as her barks can be, they also let me know that someone is approaching, and they let approachers know that a very capable dog is watching their every step.

There are times, however, when Sidney takes her enthusiastic (some prefer to call it frantic) personality a little too far. Lately, this has included four times when she decided to see for herself if the dog walking down our street was interested in a playful romp or a competitive tussle.

She means no harm, of course. Everyone knows that, right?

Well, not the lady who was innocently walking her dog past our house--with her young daughter and two other dogs in tow.

It was my kids who heard the commotion outside and yelled for me to come upstairs. "Is she in the front yard?" I asked breathlessly. (Not because I'm out of shape, mind you, but because I was in such a hurry to make sure everything was okay.)

"Yes!" the three of them shouted in unison. "She ran after another dog!"

And then I heard the woman telling my dog to go away, a sentiment that I began to echo very loudly, and to which Sidney responded very, very slowly. She had no sense that she had done anything wrong, and, it seemed, she was rather enjoying being at the end of the driveway where she could really see what was going on.

The dog owner was not happy, to say the least. "She came after my 13-year-old dog," she shouted my way, pointing to the shaggy black canine calmly standing beside her. "He's thir-TEEN!"

"Our dog's E-lev-EN!" I called from the front door as I motioned for Sidney to hurry inside. I wasn't trying to be sarcastic; I simply was trying to point out that my dog was old, too, so maybe they were just exchanging some playful old-timer communication.

The woman shook her head. "I don't care," she said. "She doesn't just come over to play. She CHOMPS. She CHOMPS!" Just in case I didn't understand what she meant by "CHOMP," she raised her left had and opened and shut her fingers vigorously over and over.

My first reaction was to become a protective pet owner. "My dog does not CHOMP!" I wanted to shout. "She may playfully nip, but it's hardly anything close to a harmful CHOMP."

But was that true? I'd never seen Sidney CHOMP at a dog, but what if this time she had? What if she was becoming a cranky geriatric dog who didn't want any other dogs on or near her property? What if she wanted to prove that she still had some spunk in her, so she decided to take on an even older dog?

And then the lady dealt me a real blow. "This is the second time it's happened," she said. I'm afraid to let my daughter walk our dogs by herself!"

My stomach kind of folded in half, and my shoulders slumped. The SECOND time she'd done it? You mean she'd gone after the poor 13-year-old dog before, perhaps CHOMPING at his delicate skin?

I looked at Sidney wearing her goofy, head-tilted, "I don't understand human so I don't know what you're talking about" expression. "Are you capable of chasing after other dogs and CHOMPING?" I asked as I dragged her by her blue collar into the house. Again, a vacant look from the dog. If she was capable of such a thing, it didn't seem she had any recollection of it five minutes later.

Once Sidney was securely inside, I ran out the front door and started down the walkway in my stocking feet. "I'm sorry!" I started to call in the direction of where the woman and her daughter were standing just a moment earlier. "I'm sorry!" But they were nowhere in sight. I headed down the sidewalk in the hopes of spotting them, although I wasn't sure why I was chasing after them. I had to say something, I told myself, but then my kids started yelling from the front door that I looked like a goofball running down the street in my white tube socks, so I turned around and headed back up the walkway.

I thought about that mom all through dinner. She probably was still fuming as she sat at her own dinner table, recounting for her husband the unfortunate events of the afternoon. "Those people never have their dog chained up," I could hear her saying. "And the owner didn't even apologize. And when I said our dog was 13, she said her dog was 11, as if that made any difference!"

If she was saying those things that evening, she certainly had a right. My precious, harmless pooch should have been supervised in the backyard so that she didn't charge after strangers going for an innocent walk. Sidney's owner, which would be me, should have immediately run down the walkway to chastise and grab her dog, and then should have stood face-to-face with the stranger and apologized--profusely. And I should have admitted to myself that Sidney, no matter how precious she might be to me, is capable of running after dogs and maybe, just maybe, even CHOMPING at them.

So now we keep a closer eye on Sid, and I keep a better check on my role as a pet owner. It's okay to be protective of your pooch and even spoil her now and then. But it's not okay to take the defensive approach and insist your furry friend is always cute and innocent, even when she's charging down the driveway to play with or--heaven forbid--CHOMP at another dog.

Reality TV Came a Little Too Late for Some Who Could Have Used It

In the early 1900s, my great-grandmother became a widow. Her husband was murdered inside the shop he owned. She was left with six children to raise.

Family insisted she move back to her native Italy, but she refused. She also declined invitations from relatives in Pennsylvania to live with them. Instead, she stayed in little Campbell, Ohio, relying on her faith and her tenacity to see her and her family through.

Imagine if there had been such a thing as reality TV shows back then. Think of how much easier the road would have been for my grandmother to trod!

Certainly, reality TV producers would have been clamoring for this unique take on a mom with a large family.

The possibilities of titles alone is mind-boggling. They could have called it "Anna on Her Own," as they followed the everyday lives of a young Italian immigrant attempting to raise six children in the rough-and-tumble "new world" of early-20th-century America.

Or they could have opted for something more dramatic and gripping: "Dad's Dead. Now What?" That title alone would have grabbed a lot of viewers and ensured the show to be picked up for at least three seasons.

The key, of course, would have been to make sure that viewers weren't actually seeing everything my grandmother and her six kids went through as they struggled to make it without a husband and a dad. That would have been too much of a downer, and maybe even a little boring for viewers who themselves were living through hardships like World War I and the Great Depression.

Instead, Anna and her brood would have had the opportunity to do some really exciting stuff the other kids wearing hand-me-down clothes and worn-out shoes never imagined. They could have gone on an African Safari with Teddy Roosevelt. Young Anna might have found a pair of high heels and shown off her talents on "Dancing With the Silent Film Stars."

Then, in need of a "vacation," she and the kids would sail back to Italy in style, visiting family and friends who would gladly invite Anna, her four daughters and two sons, along with three camera men, four hair stylists, two wardrobe people and five full-time nannies into their modest hilltop home in Abruzzo. Watching the kids pant and wipe their brows as they trudged up the dirt path to the house, a donkey lugging their suitcases behind them, would have kept viewers glued and certainly helped them feel the kids' plight.

At the end of every show, though, Anna would be shown stirring polenta over a wood stove as her six children played made-up games at the kitchen table. They were, after all, an everyday family, struggling to make it through without a husband and a dad, sharing common experiences and trying their best to make each other smile.

The "real" reality, of course, is far less glamorous. Nevertheless, my great-grandmother managed to send four of her six kids to college and to live to see members of her offspring become a lawyer, a superintendent of schools, teachers and happy housewives.

You have to wonder how much easier life might have been for her and her kids had an opportunity like a reality TV show come their way. What I know about my great-grandmother, though, tells me she would have turned it down, opting to stick with her faith and her tenacity to carry her through.

Welcome to the Hotel Mom

The Hotel Mom is a full-service, extended-stay lodging facility. Kids 18 and under stay free, eat free and receive free transportation to and from school, athletic events, play dates and expensive trips to the mall.

What makes the Hotel Mom different from your average extended-stay hotel is its superior attention to customer satisfaction. We go above and beyond what needs to be done to make our guests happy. We never seem to exceed or even meet their expectations, but we understand they realize how good they had it 15-20 years after they leave.

The pampering begins the moment you set foot in the foyer, where our hostess/concierge/cook/driver/maid/laundress greets you with open arms. Join us in the TV room every weekday from 3:30-4:45 p.m. for an after-school grazing session, during which time you can ask--no, demand--to have a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich (crust cut off but on the side), a bowl of Cheeze-Its, a fudge bar, a bowl of cereal with milk and a glass of water brought to you one at a time.

We understand how tired you are after a long day of school or play, so we'll be happy to run up to your room--five or six times in a row!--to get things you say you need but are too tired to climb the stairs to get. Our hostess/concierge/cook/driver/maid/laundress has built up a tolerance to running up and down the stairs, as she does it all day long.

The Hotel Mom offers free homework assistance. This includes a repetitive, annoying, yet caring reminder that it's time to do your homework. Please ignore this reminder until the helper (who is also the hostess, concierge, etc.) shouts it in such a strained and frantic tone that you're sure one of her eyeballs will pop out of her head.

Dawdling is expected when it comes to homework. There's no reason why you should finish your math assignment in a half-hour so that you could then move onto playing and our cook could move on to making dinner. It's much more fun (at least for you) if you put down your pencil several times for bathroom breaks, water breaks and staring-out-the-window-doing-nothing breaks.

Please know that as exasperated as our homework helper will be by the end of this tormented session, she will also be extremely pleased with how smart you're becoming and thankful that you took after your father in math.

Dinner's on! Only 45 minutes later than expected (not at all because you took so long with your homework), this gourmet feast will feature just about everything our cook can think of to satisfy each picky eater at the table. While the father joyfully digs into whatever is presented to him, it is your responsibility to request the one or two things that the cook has neglected to put on the table. Of course she should know that you'd like a ketchup sandwich for dinner instead of the pork tenderloin she carefully seasoned and roasted. Special orders do not upset us! And even if they do, we will still get them for you. Just ignore the steam coming out of the cook's ears and keep on requesting special items!

With dinner over, it's time to enjoy the many activities available to you around the Hotel Mom. These include swimming, baseball, soccer, volleyball, basketball, gymnastics and dance. We prefer if each member of your party is interested in a different activity. This gives our hostess extraordinaire an opportunity to see as much of the area as possible without ever stopping to admire anything.

We apologize if sometimes your favorite leotard isn't washed or if you have to play football without your protective cup; occasionally our hostess extraordinaire loses steam in the middle of the day. She will make it up to you, though, with a quick trip through the drive through of Dunkin' Donuts or Dairy Queen for a chocolate donut with rainbow sprinkles or a vanilla soft serve dipped in chocolate.

There is so much to see and do in our fair city, and we would consider it an honor if you would allow us to drive you around to experience it all. There's not a playground within a ten-mile radius that we don't know about, nor a McDonald's, a Burger King or a Wendy's. We'll even go to all three if each member of your party would like a different kids' meal toy! There are also swimming pools, beaches, driving ranges, parks and nature centers that your hostess extraordinaire will actually enjoy as much as you.

At the end of the day, it's time to unwind in your own private suite. Our very special turn-down service at the Hotel Mom includes unlimited book reading and free refills on water! By special request, kids ten and under can have the hostess extraordinaire cuddle with them until they fall asleep. Don't be surprised if she is still there at 1 in the morning, though. She has been doing this for so long that she doesn't remember what her own bed looks like.

Never fear, because our hostess is an early riser, and by 6 a.m. she will be back at it, cleaning and tidying up so that the whole place can come unraveled again in a matter of minutes. Don't worry, she doesn't mind... no matter how loud she yells.

One thing to keep in mind when staying at the Hotel Mom: Our hostess extraordinaire does a lot of eye-rolling, door-slamming and hair-pulling (always her own). All of this is completely natural and almost always disappears the moment she receives a hug, a cute note or a sweet comment from one of her guests. No matter how much grousing she does, remember that our hostess extraordinaire loves every moment of her day because she is able to watch her young guests grow into beautiful, mature people. This makes it all worthwhile, and it's the reason why we say...

"Enjoy your stay at the Hotel Mom. It's a pleasure to have you here."

Curse the Tooth Fairy

"The Tooth Fairy left my tooth."

My six year old stood beside my desk with a zipped snack bag in her tiny hand. Stuck in a corner of the bag was a miniscule, jagged white tooth. My daughter's facial expression revealed that she was confused and a bit angry, but not upset--at least not yet.

I stared at the tooth as though it were a piece of nuclear waste.

"Oh!" I shouted as I jumped from the chair.

Running up the basement stairs, my daughter and the tooth trailing after me, I tried to think up a plausible reason why the Tooth Fairy had done something so idiotic.

"Well, you know, sometimes she gets confused. Like, remember that time when she accidentally put the money for your sister under your pillow?"

"Yeah," she said, her lithe body right on my heels. "That was kinda dumb."

"Yes, well, it happens," I said as I spun around a few times in the kitchen, trying to come up with a way to make this work. "Maybe she thought you were in a different bed. A lot of times you end up in our bed in the middle of the night."

There! My purse was hanging on the closet door knob. If I could snatch it and get upstairs before she saw me, I could deposit a buck on the floor beside her bed and tell her it must have fallen from under her pillow.

But this little kid was right on my tail. She watched me as I lifted the strap of the purse from the knob and bolted like lightning up the stairs.

"Okay," she said in her sophisticated, six-year-old speak, "what I don't get is, why would she be confused about where to put the money if she saw me in my own bed? And why didn't she take the tooth? It's weird, isn't it?"

Why are you asking so many questions? I thought to myself. I've got to think here!

"You check your brother and sister's rooms, just in case. I'll check your room again." I needed to get rid of her so I could pull this together.

She opened the door to one bedroom, only to see her sister lying fast asleep in her own bed. She quickly shut the door. The only thing worse than being gypped by the tooth fairy is incurring the wrath of your older sister after you rouse her from a deep sleep.

"I'll check Dominic's room," she said.

I absentmindedly went into my room instead of hers. There, I tore open the flap of my purse and rummaged through receipts and library cards. My fingers were like big, clumsy blocks of cement as I tried to work as quickly as possible. A ten dollar bill drifted in the air, and five pennies clanked onto the floor. I think a four-letter word spilled out of my mouth about the same time.

"No, it's not under his pillow," my daughter called. She flung his pillows and bed covers to the foot of his bed.

I was running out of time. I scooped up the money that had fallen on the floor and fumbled for a dollar in my purse. I grabbed it, threw my purse in my closet and ran to the nearest pillow: mine. I stuffed the dollar under the floral pillow case.

"Why don't you look in our room," I called, acting very nonchalant. "You never know."

My daughter seemed to be as annoyed with me as she was with the Tooth Fairy. "Why would she leave it in here? You and Daddy aren't losing anymore teeth!"

"Just check," I insisted. "Maybe she thought you were in here last night."

"But..."

"Just check!" I was losing my cool.

"Okay."

She slid her little hand under the pillow and pulled out a dollar. For several seconds, her eyes were fixed on that beautiful green bill. "Wow!" she exclaimed. "A dollar!"

"Yes, well, see, the Tooth Fairy may get confused sometimes, but she always ends up making people happy."

I literally was sweating. If it hadn't been 8 in the morning, I might have had to pour myself a glass of wine to calm down.

As excited as she was about the dollar, she still couldn't figure out what had possessed the Tooth Fairy to act like such a bumbling boob. If this is your job, and the only one you apparently have, how could you botch it up so badly?

"How does the Tooth Fairy know I lost a tooth anyway?" she asked as we headed down the stairs.

"Um, she's in with Santa. And he keeps her updated on who loses teeth."

"So how come Santa couldn't tell her where to put the tooth?"

Is it time for that wine yet?

"Even Santa gets confused sometimes. Plus, you guys are always hopping out of your own beds and into ours, and so maybe he told her to check in our room first and she saw a body and even though it was your brother's and there wasn't a tooth under the pillow she figured she'd leave the money there."

Wow, how'd you come up with that brilliant deduction, Sherlock?

My daughter decided she'd expended enough energy trying to solve this conundrum. "Boy, that Tooth Fairy," she said as she rolled up her new dollar and headed to the TV room.

"Yes, that Tooth Fairy," I said, shaking my head.

Later that evening, I explained everything to my husband.

"I mean, I wasn't even thinking last night about the Tooth Fairy coming," I said.

"Apology accepted," he sarcastically replied.

"What!" I almost popped him on the head. Since when did the Tooth Fairy become only the mom's responsibility? "I'd accept your apology, too," I called from behind the door I'd just slammed, "if you'd offer one."

The truth is, we've both gotten a little lax about the Tooth Fairy. After three kids and umpteen teeth, the novelty wears off, at least for the parents. So one assumes the other is still keen about the job and will shoulder the responsibility, but the other one's thoughts are focused on loading the dishwasher or paying the bills or watching some grownup TV.

The result: a negligent Tooth Fairy, two guilt-ridden parents and one annoyed child holding a tooth he or she had planned on trading in for some cash.

Luckily, these rituals don't last forever. My nine-year-old has already begun to see the light. "I don't think the Tooth Fairy's real," she whispered to me while I was tucking her in one night not that long ago.

"Why not?"

"Because, someone at school said she saw her mom put money under her pillow."

It would be perfectly fine for me to tell a nine-year-old that, yes, her friend is right. The Tooth Fairy is really a mom or dad.

But knowing my oldest child, she would hold onto this shocking truth until she needed ammunition during a dramatic battle with her younger sister. Then, just at the moment that the little one had managed to get her goat, fix her wagon and bust her chops, she would pull out her weapon for the ultimate blow. "Oh yeah?" I could just hear her saying in her sassy voice, with her sassy hands on her sassy hips. "Well, there's no Tooth Fairy! So what do you think about that?"

I simply don't have the emotional strength to deal with that right now.

So I tell the nine-year-old, "If you want to believe in the Tooth Fairy, you keep believing, and let your friend have her own ideas." She seemed satisfied and drifted off to sleep. And so the fantasy continues in our house.

One of the greatest things about kids is their ability to forgive. They also like to offer the chance to try something over in the hopes that the other person--or in this case, the fairy--will get it right.

After my little one had finished ranting about the Tooth Fairy's bumbling mistake, she took the plastic bag with the tooth upstairs and stuck it back under her pillow. "I'm putting that back," she said, "to see if she takes it tonight... and leaves me a little more money."

The Tooth Fairy got the message: Finish the project, and leave some change to cover the cost of emotional duress.