It’s good that I didn’t know or I would have spent the day obsessing. As it turned out, the girls were in the house 20 minutes before they casually mentioned that they had received their report cards. Apparently a “Hannah Montana” rerun that they had viewed at least six times took precedence.

Immediately upon reviewing their report cards and talking with the girls about them, I picked up the phone and called my parents. Yes, I am 39 years old but my instant reaction on report card day is to call my parents and dissect the grades and comments line by line.

Later, I realized somewhat to my dismay that I am one of THOSE moms. No, not the make your kids pee in a bottle or wear Depends in the line at Disney World (though I did jokingly suggest one year that we “go astronaut” to avoid all of the potty time). No, I am, sad to say, one of those moms who measures my success as a parent based in no small part on how my children do in school.

I acknowledge that their grades are the result of their efforts. I do not do their work for them. If they forget to do an assignment, I tell them to go in and take their lumps. I try to not put an undue amount of pressure on their first and third grade shoulders.

But I realized, after talking with my parents, that I do view their grades as a measure of our success as parents. When their grades our good, I feel we are providing an appropriately nurturing and encouraging environment. It is also validation that the hours of flash cards, educational games, listening to them read aloud and other activities we engage in weekly are not in vain. As a family, we invest a lot of time and energy in supporting their educational endeavors and the report cards show that we are reaping the  dividends. When one of the girls struggles with something in school, my immediate reaction is to wonder how we have failed them and what more we can do.  Last year I cried, more than once, when Cat struggled with second grade math. Yes, you read that right, not college, or high school, second grade math. I had the decency to do it in private, except when I called my parents sobbing that I was failing the children as a mother because Cat did not like, or excel in, subtraction.

Frequent readers (i.e. my parents and Jill’s) know that I, like my fellow Diners Sans Crayons, tend toward the obsessive, especially when it comes to my family. From this obsessive desire to make their lives as good as I possibly can has sprung laminated spreadsheets for vacations, color-coded family photos, staying up until 1 a.m. to paint class book bags, and sunsets painted on toast using milk and food coloring. I mean well but I bring the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy and the drive of an Olympic sprinter when it comes to ensuring the girls are happy, healthy and successful.

My family tolerates and occasionally appreciates my mania. They also wait until I eventually fall over from exhaustion in a heap and then step over me to resume normalcy. I am the Boo Radley of our home, a colorful eccentric with an air of mystery but not one to be taken too seriously.

But unlike Boo Radley, I have a gold star addiction, and since no one at my company hands out stars or smiley faced stickers, I revel in those that the girls earn. Which brings us back to report card day. We, I mean they, I really mean they, honest I do, did really well in our, uh their first quarter. But I fear that Cat, age 8, has inherited my obsessive gene.

“Cat, what a great report card. I am so proud. You worked so hard honey and it paid off,” I said.

“No, it stinks,” she said.

“What? What do you mean? That is a GREAT report card. You got all As and one B.”

“That’s right,” she said sadly. “I got a B – in math. A B!!!” She said B as if she were saying “criminal record” or “herpes” or “dress without sparkles.” She ignored my statements that she comes from a long line of people who excel in liberal arts but are less talented when it comes to math. She also disregarded the fact that this was a vast improvement over last year. She looked positively disgusted when I told her that this is a great baseline and that with continued hard work, she could do even better.

Apparently in addition to learning the lessons at school, Cat and Tate have learned a few from mom. And apparently I need to be a better teacher when it comes to striving for excellence but not obsessing about perfection. I guess I better hit the books.

After about five minutes of this, I gave up and asked her, “Okay, Tate where do you want to go on our vacation next year?”

“That’s easy. We should go to my favorite place!”

“Disney World?” I asked.

“No.”

“Virginia Beach?”

“No.”

“Cape May?”

“Nope.”

“New York?”

“No, Mom. You need to think.”

“Somewhere else in Florida?”

“NO!!!”

“Okay Tater, I’m out of ideas. Where is your favorite place that you want to go to for our vacation?”

“Grandma Liz and Pop-pop Dwight’s house. DUH! That place rocks.”

I’ll have to see if we can get a reservation.

Recently however, I have been trying to make more of an effort with our family meals and have cooked numerous meals from scratch. I have poured over recipes in books, magazines and on-line. I have sought out inventive ways to get kids to eat more fruits and vegetables. I have staggered out of bed early to prepare hot, balanced pop-tart free fare for the kids before school. I thought, until this week, that my experiment in reducing our reliance on processed foods was an overwhelming success and that the kids appreciated my epicurean adventures.

One night this week I made chicken cacciatore. I was pleased when the girls quickly cleaned their plates and even asked for seconds. My pleasure and admittedly, mild gloating was cut short by the following conversation.

Tate: “Wow, that was a really good dinner. REALLY good.”

Me: “Thanks, Tate, I’m so glad you liked it.”

Tate: “Wait, you cooked this?” (With a disturbing note of confusion and incredulousness in her voice.)

Me: “Yes” (trying not to feel irritated or hostile at her obvious disbelief).

Tate: “No REALLY. YOU cooked this?”

Me: “Yes, Tate, I cooked this.”

Darling Hubby: “She really did Tate.”

Tate: “Wow, I usually figure that if it’s any good, Daddy had to cook it.”

Tate wandered in and out of the room while the argument was on but spent a few minutes toward the end watching intently. At the end of the recording I asked Tate what she thought.

“Wow, Mom,” she said. “You USED to be really smart!”

Cat started the trend with a heart-warming, if mostly off-key, rendition of “Obladi, Oblada.” (She has recently discovered The Beatles and is working her way through their catalog.) I knew we were in trouble when Tate took the stage and performed “Oops, I Did It Again” with such authentic pop-tart grinding as to cause her father to declare that she would not be allowed out of the house until she is 30 unless it is to attend convent school. It should be noted Tate is 6, and her father is not Catholic.

The second night of the concert series kicked off with Cat performing Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open” preceded by a dedication to “my wonderful daddy who I love a bunch and who heard this song on the day I was born.” Both Chris and Cat were awash in tears and mutual admiration by the end of song.

Tate performed “Oops, I Did It Again” (again) and dedicated it “to my dog Max, who I love and who is as fun as this song.”

After the concert, I asked Tate, if she was going to dedicate a song to her dear old mom, what the song might be. I thought, mistakenly, that she would pick something like “Obladi, Oblada” which we sing in the car, or “These Are the Days” which I have sung to her since she was a baby, or “I’ve Just Seen A Face,” which my dad sang to me and which I have sung countless times to the girls.

Her choice? “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince.

Seriously?

“Tater, why would you pick THAT song?

“It reminds me of you, Mom.”

“And WHY does that song remind you of me?”

“It’s fun and energetic like you, and it makes me happy like you do,” she said. I was awash in maternal satisfaction and general good feelings until she continued, “Plus, you’re nuts.”

Rather, it was.

Last night Tate surprised me by offering to read to me instead of me reading to her. She picked up a copy of “Baby Bear, Baby Bear, What Do You See?” and proceeded to read with great enthusiasm as I pulled the covers under my chin and closed my eyes.

She was barely into the story when she read, “Red Fox, Red Fox, what do you see?” when she suddenly stopped.

“What is it honey?” I asked, opening my eyes. “Do you need help with a word?”

“No, I can read it,” she said. “It says that the fox can see a flying squirrel gliding by.”

“So why did you stop?”

“Well, I was looking at the red on the fox, and it is so pretty and bright, like your highlights USED to be.”

“Ah, well, thanks.”

“But your hair isn’t pretty and bright now Mom, it’s turning BROWN,” she said.

“Well, my natural hair color IS brown, I just like to color it red. I agree I am about due but is it really that bad?”

“All I am saying is that if baby bear said to me, ‘Tater, Tater, what do you see?’ I would tell him, ‘I see a Mommy who seriously needs to get her hair dyed.’”

My new favorite time of night is when they are both asleep and very very quiet.

These bags also provide unguarded insights into the secret lives of Cat and Tate. When I ask about school, their responses are more often than not “Fine. Good. Yeah. Chicken nuggets.” Sometimes they let me in on the hot gossip (“Juliette spit on Sidney” or “Austin has a crush on Taylor Swift”) but usually it’s “Fine. Good. Yeah. Chicken nuggets.”

So I paw through the bags like a bear at a campground trash can, sifting through the detritus to find a worthwhile nugget. I am scavenging for signs of who they are when not with me and who they are on the road to becoming. I have a voracious appetite for this knowledge.

Few of the finds are surprising. In addition to the requisite folders, day planner, library books and the like, there is the expected scraps of notes from friends declaring friendship forever. There are doodles and pictures. A stray stuffed animal sometimes stows away. Often there is a jumble of Hello Kitty lipgloss, hand sanitizer, tissues and gum – sort of a purse with training wheels.

But this morning, I found something surprising in Tate’s bag. I took it out, examined it, shook my head and put it back in its original spot. I said nothing for over 30 minutes.

Finally, on the drive to school, I had to ask.

“Tater, why do you have a whoopee cushion in your book bag?” I asked.

“How did YOU know that is in there?” she countered.

“I am Mommy. I know all. That is not the point. And don’t be defensive, you aren’t in trouble. I am just really, um…….curious as to why you would pack a whoopee cushion for school.”

“Cause of what you told me.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I TOLD you to pack a whoopee cushion? Seriously? Was this when I had my concussion? Because I don’t remember telling you but I was a little loopy for a good month.”

“No Mom” she explained very patiently, as if speaking to someone with a concussion. “You always tell us to be prepared and so I packed it to be prepared.”

“I see,” I said though I really didn’t. “And what precisely are you preparing for?”

“Say I go to class and everyone is playing with all of the good toys already. I won’t need to be sad or anything. I have my own great toy to play with because I am prepared.”

And so, the nugget I gleaned today is that my girl is on her way to becoming a woman who is prepared and who is ready to bring a little levity into the most unexpected places in some surprising ways. If she isn’t sure there is fun to be had, she will just be sure to bring her own.

I can’t wait to check the bag tomorrow morning.

So you can imagine my complete shock and awe this morning when Cat, 7, required only three wake-up calls. She then completely dressed herself, brushed her teeth, fed her fish and without being asked, fed the dogs and prepared breakfast for herself and her sister. I was dumbfounded.

“Cat, thank you so much for everything you did this morning,” I said. “You showed tremendous responsibility and thoughtfulness. Mommy really appreciates it.”

Cat beamed at the compliment and then said, “No problem Mom. You will probably be seeing more of this. I just realized Christmas is coming soon so I need to start acting more responsible.”

Ah. That explains it. The girls know that I email Santa every Friday with a weekly status report. Cat wants to be sure that the reports leading up to Christmas are glowing. I am both pleased with her strategy and slightly disappointed in the ulterior motive. But I will take easy mornings any way I can get them, so I decided to see if Tate was on board with this new plan.

“So what do you think Tate? Are you going to start to do lots of good and responsible things so I can include them in my weekly report to Santa?” I asked.

Tate scowled and shook her head. “No Mom. Duh! If he has read any of your reports this year, we all know I am getting coal so I am not going to worry about the rest of the year. I’ll just play with all of the stuff Cat gets.”

I fell asleep at around 11 last night happy to have my husband and girls back and glad that they all enjoyed their adventures. I drowsed off contentedly, foolishly assuming that a full night’s sleep would follow.

At midnight, I was awakened by a horrific cacophony beside me. In a few seconds I ascertained that a leaf blower was not running in my bed, Darling Hubby was snoring. VERY loudly. I scampered to the quiet of the guest room and was back to sleep after some tossing and turning before 1 a.m.

At 3 a.m. Tate came in to discuss the loot the Tooth Fairy had left her (she lost on tooth while on her weekend adventure). I pulled her into bed with me and assured her that I would love to hear all about – any time after 6 a.m. I was back to sleep by 3:30.

A little after 4:15 Tate woke me up again, this time with growing pains in her legs. I staggered down the hall in search of children’s Advil. Two minutes after taking it, she informed me loudly that it wasn’t working yet. I explained that we needed to give it a few minutes but agreed to look for the cream we had for muscle aches if she would stop crying. That search led me to pawing through my bedroom medicine cabinet muttering loudly that I had not truly planned on sleeping tonight anyway. It must have woken Darling Hubby who came into the guestroom.

“What’s up?” he asked in the annoyingly chipper tone of someone who had spent the last five hours asleep.

“Tate is. Has been on and off since 3. The Tooth Fairy came, and then leg cramps did. I am working on the leg cramp issue now,” I said in what I am sure was NOT the chipper tone of someone who spent the last five hours asleep.

“Tater, why didn’t you come in with Daddy?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”

While I resisted the urge to smack him, Tate replied, “Because I heard you talking and I know Mommy is a doctor, so I came to her.”

“No Tate, Mommy is not a doctor. Mommy HAS a doctorate and a love of sleep. It’s okay to wake up Daddy sometimes you know,” I told her.

“I think Sponge Bob would help my leg,” she told me. “Do you mind if we cuddle and watch Sponge Bob?”

“Yes, at this hour I mind very much. Besides, I don’t think Sponge Bob is on at 4:30 in the morning. You need to go back to sleep. More importantly Mommy NEEDS to go back to sleep. Sleep needs to be our major form of entertainment right now.”

“You know what else is entertaining,” she asked. “Farting. Watch, I am going to fart and its really funny.” She proceeded to deliver on her threat and laugh maniacally. At which point, I gave Darling Husband a look designed to convey that someone was about to get hurt and I was not feeling terribly discriminating about who that would be.

“C’mon Tater, come in with Daddy and snuggle,” Darling Husband said to her. “I think Mommy is a little grumpy and needs her sleep.”

Captain Obvious and Tate retreated to my bedroom. I can hear them both snoring now. I am returning to the guest room to mentally plan their next daddy/daughter weekend.

“Wow” I said as they walked out the door to catch the bus. “You both look fantastic. You look so comfy.”

“Yeah,” Cat replied over her shoulder. “We look just like you on your work-from-home days except our hair is fixed up.”